1MNSTON  CHURCmiiL 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


A  FAR  COUNTRY 


"WHY  HAVEN'T  YOU  BEEN  TO  SEE  ME  SINCE  I  CAME  HOME?" 


A  FAR  COUNTRY 


BY 

WINSTON  CHURCHILL 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  INSIDE  OF  THE  CUP, 
THE  CRISIS,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

HERMAN  PFEIFER 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET  &   DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Published    by   Arrangement    with   The   Macmillan  Company 
All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  1915, 
BY  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  COMPANY. 


COPYRIGHT,  1915, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  June,  1915.     Reprinted 
June,  twice,  July,  August,  September,  October,  November, 
December,  1915;  January,  1916. 

COPYRIGHT,  CANADA,  1915, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY   OF  CANADA,   LTD. 


College 
Library 

PS 
12,97 

F3A 


"  And  took  Ms  journey  into  a  far  country  n 


•4  f  '•  f^f~*-t*~^  "~i>  r~» 

1U60335 


A  FAR  COUNTRY 


MY  name  is  Hugh  Paret.  I  was  a  corporation  lawyer, 
but  by  no  means  a  typical  one,  the  choice  of  my  profession 
being  merely  incidental,  and  due,  as  will  be  seen,  to  the  acci 
dent  of  environment.  The  book  I  am  about  to  write  might 
aptly  be  called  The  Autobiography  of  a  Romanticist.  In  that 
sense,  if  in  no  other,  I  have  been  a  typical  American,  regarding 
my  country  as  the  happy  hunting-ground  of  enlightened- 
self-interest,  as  a  function  of  my  desires.  Whether  or  not  I 
have  completely  got  rid  of  this  romantic  virus  I  must  leave 
to  those  the  aim  of  whose  existence  is  to  eradicate  it  from  our 
literature  and  our  life.  An  Augean  task ! 

I  have  been  impelled  therefore  to  make  an  attempt  at 
setting  forth,  with  what  frankness  and  sincerity  I  may,  with 
those  powers  of  selection  of  which  I  am  capable,  the  life  I 
have  lived  in  this  modern  America,  the  passions  I  have 
known,  the  evils  I  have  done.  I  endeavour  to  write  a  biog 
raphy  of  the  inner  life ;  but  in  order  to  do  this  I  shall  have 
to  relate  those  causal  experiences  of  the  outer  existence  that 
take  place  in  the  world  of  space  and  time,  in  the  four  walls  of 
the  home,  in  the  school  and  university,  in  the  noisy  streets, 
in  the  realm  of  business  and  politics.  I  shall  try  to  set 
down,  impartially,  the  motives  that  have  impelled  my  actions, 
to  reveal  in  some  degree  the  amazing  mixture  of  good  and  evil 
which  has  made  me  what  I  am  to-day :  to  avoid  the  tricks 
of  memory  and  resist  the  inherent  desire  to  present  myself 
other  and  better  than  I  am.  Your  American  romanticist 
is  a  sentimental  spoiled  child  who  believes  in  miracles, 

B  1 


2  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

whose  needs  are  mostly  baubles,  whose  desires  are  dreams 
Expediency  is  his  motto.  Innocent  of  a  knowledge  of  the 
principles  of  the  universe,  he  lives  in  a  state  of  ceaseless 
activity,  admitting  no  limitations,  impatient  of  all  restric 
tions.  What  he  wants,  he  wants  very  badly  indeed.  This 
wanting  things  was  the  corner-stone  of  my  character,  and  I 
believe  that  the  science  of  the  future  will  bear  me  out  when  I 
say  that  it  might  have  been  differently  built  upon.  Certain 
it  is  that  the  system  of  education  in  vogue  in  the  70's  and 
80 's  never  contemplated  the  search  for  natural  corner-stones. 
At  all  events,  when  I  look  back  upon  the  boy  I  was,  I  see 
the  beginnings  of  a  real  person  who  fades  little  by  little  as 
manhood  arrives  and  advances,  until  suddenly  I  am  aware 
that  a  stranger  has  taken  his  place.  .  .  . 


I  lived  in  a  city  which  is  now  some  twelve  hours  distant 
from  the  Atlantic  seaboard.  A  very  different  city,  too,  it 
was  in  youth,  in  my  grandfather's  day  and  my  father's,  even 
in  my  own  boyhood,  from  what  it  has  since  become  in  this 
most  material  of  ages. 

There  is  a  book  of  my  photographs,  preserved  by  my 
mother,  which  I  have  been  looking  over  lately.  First  is 
presented  a  plump  child  of  two,  gazing  in  smiling  trustfulness 
upon  a  world  of  sunshine;  later  on  a  lean  boy  in  plaided 
kilts,  whose  wavy,  chestnut-brown  hair  has  been  most  care 
fully  parted  on  the  side  by  Norah,  his  nurse.  The  face  is 
still  childish.  Then  appears  a  youth  of  fourteen  or  there 
about  in  long  trousers  and  the  queerest  of  short  jackets, 
standing  beside  a  marble  table  against  a  classic  background ; 
he  is  smiling  still  in  undiminished  hope  and  trust,  despite  in 
creasing  vexations  and  crossings,  meaningless  lessons  which 
had  to  be  learned,  disciplines  to  rack  an  aspiring  soul,  and 
long,  uncomfortable  hours  in  the  stiff  pew  of  the  First 
Presbyterian  Church.  Associated  with  this  torture  is  a 
peculiar  Sunday  smell  and  the  faint  rustling  of  silk  dresses. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  3 

I  can  see  the  stern  black  figure  of  Dr.  Pound,  who  made  in 
terminable  statements  to  the  Lord. 

"Oh,  Lord,"  I  can  hear  him  say,  "thou  knowest  .  .  ." 

These  pictures,  though  yellowed  and  faded,  suggest  vividly 
the  being  I  once  was,  the  feelings  that  possessed  and  animated 
me,  love  for  my  playmates,  vague  impulses  struggling  for 
expression  in  a  world  forever  thwarting  them.  I  recall,  too, 
innocent  dreams  of  a  future  unidentified,  dreams  from  which 
I  emerged  vibrating  with  an  energy  that  was  lost  for  lack  of  a 
definite  objective :  yet  it  was  constantly  being  renewed.  I 
often  wonder  what  I  might  have  become  if  it  could  have 
been  harnessed,  directed!  Speculations  are  vain.  Calvin 
ism,  though  it  had  begun  to  make  compromises,  was  still  a 
force  in  those  days,  inimical  to  spontaneity  and  human  in 
stincts.  And  when  I  think  of  Calvinism  I  see,  not  Dr.  Pound, 
who  preached  it,  but  my  father,  who  practised  and  embodied 
it.  I  loved  him,  but  he  made  of  righteousness  a  stern  and 
terrible  thing  implying  not  joy,  but  punishment,  the  suppres 
sion  rather  than  the  expansion  of  aspirations.  His  religion 
seemed  woven  all  of  austerity,  contained  no  shining  threads 
to  catch  my  eye.  Dreams,  to  him,  were  matters  for  suspicion 
and  distrust. 

I  sometimes  ask  myself,  as  I  gaze  upon  his  portrait  now,  — 
the  duplicate  of  the  one  painted  for  the  Bar  Association,  — 
whether  he  ever  could  have  felt  the  secret,  hot  thrills  I  knew 
and  did  not  identify  with  religion.  His  religion  was  real  to 
him,  though  he  failed  utterly  to  make  it  comprehensible  to 
me.  The  apparent  calmness,  evenness  of  his  life  awed  me. 
A  successful  lawyer,  a  respected  and  trusted  citizen,  was  he 
lacking  somewhat  in  virility,  vitality  ?  I  cannot  judge  him, 
even  to-day.  I  never  knew  him.  There  were  times  in  my 
youth  when  the  curtain  of  his  unfamiliar  spirit  was  with 
drawn  a  little :  and  once,  after  I  had  passed  the  crisis  of  some 
childhood  disease,  I  awoke  to  find  him  bending  over  my  bed 
with  a  tender  expression  that  surprised  and  puzzled  me. 

He  was  well  educated,  and  from  his  portrait  a  shrewd  ob 
server  might  divine  in  him  a  genteel  taste  for  literature.  The 


4  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

fine  features  bear  witness  to  the  influence  of  an  American 
environment,  yet  suggest  the  intellectual  Englishman  of 
Matthew  Arnold's  time.  The  face  is  distinguished,  ascetic, 
the  chestnut  hair  lighter  and  thinner  than  my  own ;  the  side 
whiskers  are  not  too  obtrusive,  the  eyes  blue-grey.  There  is  a 
large  black  cravat  crossed  and  held  by  a  cameo  pin,  and  the 
coat  has  odd,  narrow  lapels.  His  habits  of  mind  were  English, 
although  he  harmonized  well  enough  with  the  manners  and 
traditions  of  a  city  whose  inheritance  was  Scotch-Irish ;  and 
he  invariably  drank  tea  for  breakfast.  One  of  my  earliest 
recollections  is  of  the  silver  breakfast  service  and  egg-cups 
which  my  great-grandfather  brought  with  him  from  Sheffield 
to  Philadelphia  shortly  after  the  Revolution.  His  son,  Dr. 
Hugh  Moreton  Paret,  after  whom  I  was  named,  was  the  best- 
known  physician  of  the  city  in  the  decorous,  Second  Bank 
days. 

My  mother  was  Sarah  Breck.  Hers  was  my  Scotch-Irish 
side.  Old  Benjamin  Breck,  her  grandfather,  undaunted  by 
sea  or  wilderness,  had  come  straight  from  Belfast  to  the  little 
log  settlement  by  the  great  river  that  mirrored  then  the 
mantle  of  primeval  forest  on  the  hills.  So  much  for  chance. 
He  kept  a  store  with  a  side  porch  and  square-paned  windows, 
where  hams  and  sides  of  bacon  and  sugar  loaves  in  blue  glazed 
paper  hung  beside  ploughs  and  calico  prints,  barrels  of  flour, 
of  molasses  and  rum,  all  of  which  had  been  somehow  marvel 
lously  transported  over  the  passes  of  those  forbidding 
mountains,  —  passes  we  blithely  thread  to-day  in  dining  cars 
and  compartment  sleepers.  Behind  the  store  were  moored 
the  barges  that  floated  down  on  the  swift  current  to  the 
Ohio,  carrying  goods  to  even  remoter  settlements  in  the 
western  wilderness. 

Benjamin,  in  addition  to  his  emigrant's  leather  box, 
brought  with  him  some  of  that  pigment  that  was  to  dye  the 
locality  for  generations  a  deep  blue.  I  refer,  of  course,  to 
his  Presbyterianism.  And  in  order  the  better  to  ensure  to 
his  progeny  the  fastness  of  this  dye,  he  married  the  grand 
daughter  of  a  famous  divine,  celebrated  in  the  annals  of  New 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  5 

England,  —  no  doubt  with  some  injustice,  —  as  a  staunch 
advocate  of  the  doctrine  of  infant  damnation.  My  cousin 
Robert  Breck  had  old  Benjamin's  portrait,  which  has  since 
gone  to  the  Kinley's.  Heaven  knows  who  painted  it,  though 
no  great  art  were  needed  to  suggest  on  canvas  the  tough 
fabric  of  that  sitter,  who  was  more  Irish  than  Scotch.  The 
ffeavy  stick  he  holds  might,  with  a  slight  stretch  of  the  im 
agination,  be  a  blackthorn ;  his  head  looks  capable  of  with 
standing  many  blows ;  his  hand  of  giving  many.  And,  as  I 
gazed  the  other  day  at  this  picture  hanging  in  the  shabby 
suburban  parlour,  I  could  only  contrast  him  with  his  anaemic 
descendants  who  possessed  the  likeness.  Between  the  chil 
dren  of  poor  Mary  Kinley,  —  Cousin  Robert's  daughter,  — 
and  the  hardy  stock  of  the  old  country  there  is  a  gap  in 
deed! 

Benjamin  Breck  made  the  foundation  of  a  fortune.  It 
was  his  son  who  built  on  the  Second  Bank  the  wide,  cor 
niced  mansion  in  which  to  house  comfortably  his  eight  chil- 
ren.  .  There,  two  tiers  above  the  river,  lived  my  paternal 
grandfather,  Dr.  Paret,  the  Breck's  physician  and  friend; 
the  Durretts  and  the  Hambletons,  iron-masters ;  the  Hollis- 
ters,  Sherwins,  the  McAlerys  and  Ewanses,  —  Breck  connec 
tions,  —  the  Willetts  and  Ogilvys ;  in  short,  everyone  of  im 
portance  in  the  days  between  the  'thirties  and  the  Civil  War. 
Theirs  were  generous  houses  surrounded  by  shade  trees,  with 
glorious  back  yards  —  I  have  been  told  —  where  apricots 
and  pears  and  peaches  and  even  nectarines  grew.  .  .  . 


The  business  of  Breck  and  Company,  wholesale  grocers, 
descended  to  my  mother's  first  cousin,  Robert  Breck,  who 
lived  at  Claremore.  The  very  sound  of  that  word  once 
sufficed  to  give  me  a  shiver  of  delight ;  but  the  Claremore  I 
knew  has  disappeared  as  completely  as  Atlantis,  and  the  place 
is  now  a  suburb  (hateful  word !)  cut  up  into  building  lots 
and  connected  with  Boyne  Street  and  the  business  section 


6  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

of  the  city  by  trolley  lines.  Then  it  was  "the  country," 
and  fairly  saturated  with  romance.  Cousin  Robert,  when  he 
came  into  town  to  spend  his  days  at  the  store,  brought  with 
him  some  of  this  romance,  I  had  almost  said  of  this  aroma. 
He  was  no  suburbanite,  but  rural  to  the  backbone,  professing 
a  most  proper  contempt  for  dwellers  in  towns. 

Every  summer  day  that  dawned  held  Claremore  as  a 
possibility.  And  such  was  my  capacity  for  joy  that  my 
appetite  would  depart  completely  when  I  heard  my  mother 
say,  questioningly  and  with  proper  wifely  respect : 

"If  you're  really  going  off  on  a  business  trip  for  a  day  or 
two,  Mr.  Paret "  (she  generally  addressed  my  father  thus 
formally),  "I  think  I'll  go  to  Robert's  and  take  Hugh." 

"Shall  I  tell  Norah  to  pack,  mother?"  I  would  exclaim, 
starting  up. 

"We'll  see  what  your  father  thinks,  my  dear." 

"Remain  at  the  table  until  you  are  excused,  Hugh,"  he 
would  say. 

Released  at  length,  I  would  rush  to  Norah,  who  always 
rejoiced  with  me,  and  then  to  the  wire  fence  which  marked 
the  boundary  of  the  Peters  domain  next  door,  eager,  with 
the  refreshing  lack  of  consideration  characteristic  of  youth, 
to  announce  to  the  Peterses  —  who  were  to  remain  at  home  — 
the  news  of  my  good  fortune.  There  would  be  Tom  and 
Alfred  and  Russell  and  Julia  and  little  Myra  with  her  grass- 
stained  knees,  faring  forth  to  seek  the  adventures  of  a  new 
day  in  the  shady  western  yard.  Myra  was  too  young  not 
to  look  wistful  at  my  news,  but  the  others  pretended  indiffer 
ence,  seeking  to  lessen  my  triumph.  And  it  was  Julia  who 
invariably  retorted : 

"We  can  go  out  to  Uncle  Jake's  farm  whenever  we  want 
to.  Can't  we,  Tom?"  .  .  . 

No  journey  ever  taken  since  has  equalled  in  ecstasy  that 
leisurely  trip  of  thirteen  miles  in  the  narrow-gauge  railroad 
that  wound  through  hot  fields  of  nodding  corn  tassels  and 
between  delicious,  acrid-smelling  woods  to  Claremore.  No 
silent  palace  "sleeping  in  the  sun,"  no  edifice  decreed  by 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  7 

Kubla  Khan  could  have  worn  more  glamour  than  the  house 
of  Cousin  Robert  Breck. 

It  stood  half  a  mile  from  the  drowsy  village,  deep  in  its 
own  grounds  amidst  lawns  splashed  with  shadows,  with 
gravel  paths  edged  —  in  barbarous  fashion,  if  you  please  — 
with  shells.  There  were  flower  beds  of  equally  barbarous 
design ;  and  two  iron  deer,  which,  like  the  figures  on  Keats's 
Grecian  urn,  were  ever  ready  poised  to  flee,  —  and  yet  never 
fled.  For  Cousin  Robert  was  rich,  as  riches  went  in  those 
days:  not  only  rich,  but  comfortable.  Stretching  behind 
the  house  were  sweet  meadows  of  hay  and  red  clover  basking 
in  the  heat,  orchards  where  the  cows  cropped  beneath  the 
trees,  arbours  where  purple  clusters  of  Concords  hung  be 
neath  warm  leaves :  there  were  woods  beyond,  into  which, 
under  the  guidance  of  Willie  Breck,  I  made  adventurous  ex 
cursions,  and  in  the  autumn  gathered  hickories  and  walnuts. 
The  house  was  a  rambling,  wooden  mansion  painted  grey, 
with  red  scroll-work  on  its  porches  and  horsehair  furniture 
inside.  Oh,  the  smell  of  its  darkened  interior  on  a  mid 
summer  day !  Like  the  flavour  of  that  choicest  of  tropical 
fruits,  the  mangosteen,  it  baffles  analysis,  and  the  nearest 
I  can  come  to  it  is  a  mixture  of  matting  and  corn-bread, 
with  another  element  too  subtle  to  define. 

The  hospitality  of  that  house !  One  would  have  thought 
we  had  arrived,  my  mother  and  I,  from  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
such  was  the  welcome  we  got  from  Cousin  Jenny,  Cousin 
Robert's  wife,  from  Mary  and  Helen  with  the  flaxen  pig-tails, 
from  Willie,  whom  I  recall  as  permanently  without  shoes 
or  stockings.  Met  and  embraced  by  Cousin  Jenny  at  the 
station  and  driven  to  the  house  in  the  squeaky  surrey,  the 
moment  we  arrived  she  and  my  mother  would  put  on 
the  dressing-sacks  I  associated  with  hot  weather,  and  sit 
sewing  all  day  long  in  rocking-chairs  at  the  coolest  end  of  the 
piazza.  The  women  of  that  day  scorned  lying  down,  except 
at  night,  and  as  evening  came  on  they  donned  starched 
dresses;  I  recall  in  particular  one  my  mother  wore,  with 
little  vertical  stripes  of  black  and  white,  and  a  full  skirt. 


8 

And  how  they  talked,  from  the  beginning  of  the  visit  until 
the  end !  I  have  often  since  wondered  where  the  topics  came 
from. 

It  was  not  until  nearly  seven  o'clock  that  the  train  arrived 
which  brought  home  my  Cousin  Robert.  He  was  a  big 
man ;  his  features  and  even  his  ample  moustache  gave  a 
disconcerting  impression  of  rugged  integrity,  and  I  remember 
him  chiefly  in  an  alpaca  or  seersucker  coat.  Though  much 
less  formal,  more  democratic  —  in  a  word  —  than  my  father, 
I  stood  in  awe  of  him  for  a  different  reason,  and  this  I  know 
now  was  because  he  possessed  the  penetration  to  discern  the 
flaws  in  my  youthful  character,  —  flaws  that  persisted  in 
manhood.  None  so  quick  as  Cousin  Robert  to  detect  decep 
tions  which  were  hidden  from  my  mother. 

His  hobby  was  carpentering,  and  he  had  a  little  shop  be 
side  the  stable  filled  with  shining  tools  which  Willie  and  I, 
in  spite  of  their  attractions,  were  forbidden  to  touch.  Willie, 
by  dire  experience,  had  learned  to  keep  the  law ;  but  on  one 
occasion  I  stole  in  alone,  and  promptly  cut  my  finger  with  a 
chisel.  My  mother  and  Cousin  Jenny  accepted  the  fiction 
that  the  injury  had  been  done  with  a  flint  arrowhead  that 
Willie  had  given  me,  but  when  Cousin  Robert  came  home  and 
saw  my  bound  hand  and  heard  the  story,  he  gave  me  a 
certain  look  which  sticks  in  my  mind. 

"  Wonderful  people,  those  Indians  were ! "  he  observed. 
"They  could  make  arrowheads  as  sharp  as  chisels." 

I  was  most  uncomfortable.  .  .  . 

He  had  a  strong  voice,  and  spoke  with  a  rising  inflection 
and  a  marked  accent  that  still  remains  peculiar  to  our 
locality,  although  it  was  much  modified  in  my  mother  and 
not  at  all  noticeable  in  my  father ;  with  an  odd  nasal  altera 
tion  of  the  burr  our  Scotch-Irish  ancestors  had  brought  with 
them  across  the  seas.  For  instance,  he  always  called  my 
father  Mr.  Par-r-ret.  He  had  an  admiration  and  respect  for 
him  that  seemed  to  forbid  the  informality  of  "Matthew." 
It  was  shared  by  others  of  my  father's  friends  and  rela 
tions. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  9 

"Sarah,"  Cousin  Robert  would  say  to  my  mother,  "  you're 
coddling  that  boy,  you  ought  to  lam  him  oftener.  Hand 
him  over  to  me  for  a  couple  of  months  —  I'll  put  him  through 
his  paces.  ...  So  you're  going  to  send  him  to  college,  are 
you?  He's  too  good  for  old  Benjamin's  grocery  business." 

He  was  very  fond  of  my  mother,  though  he  lectured  her 
soundly  for  her  weakness  in  indulging  me.  I  can  see  him  as 
he  sat  at  the  head  of  the  supper  table,  carving  liberal  helpings 
which  Mary  and  Helen  and  Willie  devoured  with  country 
appetites,  watching  our  plates. 

"What's  the  matter,  Hugh?  You  haven't  eaten  all 
your  lamb." 

"He  doesn't  like  fat,  Robert,"  my  mother  explained. 

"I'd  teach  him  to  like  it  if  he  were  my  boy." 

"Well,  Robert,  he  isn't  your  boy,"  Cousin  Jenny  would 
remind  him.  .  .  . 

His  bark  was  worse  than  his  bite.  Like  many  kind  people 
he  made  use  of  brusqueness  to  hide  an  inner  tenderness,  and 
on  the  train  he  was  hail  fellow  well  met  with  every  Tom,  Dick 
and  Harry  that  commuted,  —  although  the  word  was  not 
invented  in  those  days,  —  and  the  conductor  and  brakeman 
too.  But  he  had  his  standards,  and  held  to  them.  .  .  . 


Mine  was  not  a  questioning  childhood,  and  I  was  willing 
to  accept  the  scheme  of  things  as  presented  to  me  entire. 
In  my  tenderer  years,  when  I  had  broken  one  of  the  command 
ments  on  my  father's  tablet  (there  were  more  than  ten), 
and  had,  on  his  home-coming,  been  sent  to  bed,  my  mother 
would  come  softly  upstairs  after  supper  with  a  book  in  her 
hand ;  a  book  of  selected  Bible  stories  on  which  Dr.  Pound 
had  set  the  seal  of  his  approval,  with  a  glazed  picture  cover 
representing  Daniel  in  the  lions'  den  and  an  angel  standing 
beside  him.  On  the  somewhat  specious  plea  that  Holy 
Writ  might  have  a  chastening  effect,  she  was  permitted  to 
minister  to  me  in  my  shame.  The  amazing  adventure  of 


10  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Shadrach,  Meshach  and  Abednego  particularly  appealed  to 
an  imagination  needing  little  stimulation.  It  never  occurred 
to  me  to  doubt  that  these  gentlemen  had  triumphed  over 
caloric  laws.  But  out  of  my  window,  at  the  back  of  the 
second  storey,  I  often  saw  a  sudden,  crimson  glow  in  the  sky 
to  the  southward,  as  though  that  part  of  the  city  had  caught 
fire.  There  were  the  big  steel-works,  my  mother  told  me, 
belonging  to  Mr.  Durrett  and  Mr.  Hambleton,  the  father  of 
Ralph  Hambleton  and  the  grandfather  of  Hambleton 
Durrett,  my  schoolmates  at  Miss  Caroline's.  I  invariably 
connected  the  glow,  not  with  Hambleton  and  Ralph,  but  with 
Shadrach,  Meshach  and  Abednego !  Later  on,  when  my 
father  took  me  to  the  steel-works,  and  I  beheld  with  awe  a 
huge  pot  filled  with  molten  metal  that  ran  out  of  it  like 
water,  I  asked  him  —  if  I  leaped  into  that  stream,  could 
God  save  me?  He  was  shocked.  Miracles,  he  told  me, 
didn't  happen  any  more. 

"When  did  they  stop?"  I  demanded. 

"About  two  thousand  years  ago,  my  son,"  he  replied 
gravely. 

"Then,"  said  I,  "no  matter  how  much  I  believed  in  God, 
he  wouldn't  save  me  if  I  jumped  into  the  big  kettle  for  his 
sake?" 

For  this  I  was  properly  rebuked  and  silenced. 

My  boyhood  was  filled  with  obsessing  desires.  If  God, 
for  example,  had  cast  down,  out  of  his  abundant  store,  manna 
and  quail  in  the  desert,  why  couldn't  he  fling  me  a  little 
pocket  money?  A  paltry  quarter  of  a  dollar,  let  us  say, 
which  to  me  represented  wealth.  To  avoid  the  reproach  of 
the  Pharisees,  I  went  into  the  closet  of  my  bed-chamber  to 
pray,  requesting  that  the  quarter  should  be  dropped  on  the 
north  side  of  Lyme  Street,  between  Stamford  and  Tryon; 
in  short,  as  conveniently  near  home  as  possible.  Then  I 
issued  forth,  not  feeling  overconfident,  but  hoping.  Tom 
Peters,  leaning  over  the  ornamental  cast-iron  fence  which 
separated  his  front  yard  from  the  street,  presently  spied  me 
scanning  the  sidewalk. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  11 

"What  are  you  looking  for,  Hugh?"  he  demanded  with 
interest. 

"Oh,  something  I  dropped,"  I  answered  uneasily. 

"What?" 

Naturally,  I  refused  to  tell.  It  was  a  broiling,  mid 
summer  day;  Julia  and  Russell,  who  had  been  warned  to 
stay  in  the  shade,  but  who  were  engaged  in  the  experiment 
of  throwing  the  yellow  cat  from  the  top  of  the  lattice  fence 
to  see  if  she  would  alight  on  her  feet,  were  presently  attracted, 
and  joined  in  the  search.  The  mystery  which  I  threw  around 
it  added  to  its  interest,  and  I  was  not  inconsiderably  annoyed. 
Suppose  one  of  them  were  to  find  the  quarter  which  God  had 
intended  for  me  ?  Would  that  be  justice  ? 

"It's  nothing,"  I  said,  and  pretended  to  abandon  the  quest 
—  to  be  renewed  later.  But  this  ruse  failed ;  they  continued 
obstinately  to  search ;  and  after  a  few  minutes  Tom,  with  a 
shout,  picked  out  of  a  hot  crevice  between  the  bricks  —  a 
nickel ! 

"It's  mine!"  I  cried  fiercely. 

"Did  you  lose  it?"  demanded  Julia,  the  canny  one,  as 
Tom  was  about  to  give  it  up. 

My  lying  was  generally  reserved  for  my  elders. 

"N-no,"  I  said  hesitatingly,  "but  it's  mine  all  the  same. 
It  was  —  sent  to  me." 

"Sent  to  you!"  they  exclaimed,  in  a  chorus  of  protest 
and  derision.  And  how,  indeed,  was  I  to  make  good  my 
claim  ?  The  Peterses,  when  assembled,  were  a  clan,  led  by 
Julia  and  in  matters  of  controversy  moved  as  one.  How 
was  I  to  tell  them  that  in  answer  to  my  prayers  for  twenty- 
five  cents,  God  had  deemed  five  all  that  was  good  for  me  ? 

"Some — somebody  dropped  it  there  for  me." 

"Who?"  demanded  the  chorus.  "Say,  that's  a  good 
one!" 

Tears  suddenly  blinded  me.  Overcome  by  chagrin,  I 
turned  and  flew  into  the  house  and  upstairs  into  my  room, 
locking  the  door  behind  me.  An  interval  ensued,  during 
which  I  nursed  my  sense  of  wrong,  and  it  pleased  me  to  think 


14  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

vicious.  Ideas  bubbled  up  within  me  continually  from  an 
apparently  inexhaustible  spring,  and  the  very  strength  of 
the  longings  they  set  in  motion  puzzled  and  troubled  my 
parents :  what  I  seem  to  see  most  distinctly  now  is  a  young 
mind  engaged  in  a  ceaseless  struggle  for  self-expression,  for 
self-development,  against  the  inertia  of  a  tradition  of  which 
my  father  was  the  embodiment.  He  was  an  enigma  to  me 
then.  He  sincerely  loved  me,  he  cherished  ambitions  con 
cerning  me,  yet  thwarted  every  natural,  budding  growth, 
until  I  grew  unconsciously  to  regard  him  as  my  enemy,  al 
though  I  had  an  affection  for  him  and  a  pride  in  him  that 
flared  up  at  times.  Instead  of  confiding  to  him  my  aspira 
tions,  vague  though  they  were,  I  became  more  and  more 
secretive  as  I  grew  older.  I  knew  instinctively  that  he  re 
garded  these  aspirations  as  evidences  in  my  character  of 
serious  moral  flaws.  And  I  would  sooner  have  suffered  many 
afternoons  of  his  favourite  punishment — solitary  confinement 
in  my  room  —  than  reveal  to  him  those  occasional  fits  of 
creative  fancy  which  caused  me  to  neglect  my  lessons  in  order 
to  put  them  on  paper.  Loving  literature,  in  his  way,  he 
was  characteristically  incapable  of  recognizing  the  literary 
instinct,  and  the  symptoms  of  its  early  stages  he  mistook 
for  inherent  frivolity,  for  lack  of  respect  for  the  truth;  in 
brief,  for  original  sin.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  I  had  begun 
secretly  (alas,  how  many  things  I  did  secretly !)  to  write 
stories  of  a  sort,  stories  that  never  were  finished. 

He  regarded  reading  as  duty,  not  pleasure.  He  laid  out 
books  for  me,  which  I  neglected.  He  was  part  and  parcel 
of  that  American  environment  in  which  literary  ambition 
was  regarded  as  sheer  madness.  And  no  one  who  has  not 
experienced  that  environment  can  have  any  conception  of 
the  pressure  it  exerted  to  stifle  originality,  to  thrust  the  new 
generation  into  its  religious  and  commercial  moulds.  Shall 
we  ever,  I  wonder,  develop  the  enlightened  education  that 
will  know  how  to  take  advantage  of  such  initiative  as  was 
mine?  that  will  be  on  the  watch  for  it,  sympathize  with  it 
and  guide  it  to  fruition  ? 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  15 

I  was  conscious  of  still  another  creative  need,  that  of 
dramatizing  my  ideas,  of  converting  them  into  action.  And 
this  need  was  to  lead  me  farther  than  ever  afield  from  the 
path  of  righteousness.  The  concrete  realization  of  ideas, 
as  many  geniuses  will  testify,  is  an  expensive  undertaking, 
requiring  a  little  pocket  money ;  and  I  have  already  touched 
upon  that  subject.  My  father  did  not  believe  in  pocket 
money.  A  sea  story  that  my  Cousin  Donald  Ewan  gave 
me  at  Christmas  inspired  me  to  compose  one  of  a  somewhat 
different  nature ;  incidentally,  I  deemed  it  a  vast  improve 
ment  on  Cousin  Donald's  book.  Now,  if  I  only  had  a  boat, 
with  the  assistance  of  Ham  Durrett  and  Tom  Peters,  Gene 
Hollister  and  Perry  Blackwood  and  other  friends,  this  story 
of  mine  might  be  staged.  There  were,  however,  as  usual, 
certain  seemingly  insuperable  difficulties :  in  the  first  place, 
it  was  winter  time ;  in  the  second,  no  facilities  existed  in 
the  city  for  operations  of  a  nautical  character ;  and,  lastly, 
my  Christmas  money  amounted  only  to  five  dollars. 

It  was  my  father  who  pointed  out  these  and  other  objec 
tions.  For,  after  a  careful  perusal  of  the  price  lists  I  had  sent 
for,  I  had  been  forced  to  appeal  to  him  to  supply  additional 
funds  with  which  to  purchase  a  row-boat.  Incidentally, 
he  read  me  a  lecture  on  extravagance,  referred  to  my  last 
month's  report  at  the  Academy,  and  finished  by  declaring 
that  he  would  not  permit  me  to  have  a  boat  even  in  the 
highly  improbable  case  of  somebody's  presenting  me  with  one. 
Let  it  not  be  imagined  that  my  ardour  or  my  determination 
were  extinguished.  Shortly  after  I  had  retired  from  his 
presence  it  occurred  to  me  that  he  had  said  nothing  to  forbid 
my  making  a  boat,  and  the  first  thing  I  did  after  school  that 
day  was  to  procure,  for  twenty-five  cents,  a  second-hand  book 
on  boat  construction.  The  woodshed  was  chosen  as  a  ship 
building  establishment.  It  was  convenient  —  and  my  father 
never  went  into  the  back  yard  in  cold  weather.  Inquiries 
of  lumber-yards  developing  the  disconcerting  fact  that  four 
dollars  and  seventy-five  cents  was  inadequate  to  buy  the 
material  itself,  to  say  nothing  of  the  cost  of  steaming  and 


16  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

bending  the  ribs,  I  reluctantly  abandoned  the  ideal  of  the  grace 
ful  craft  I  had  sketched,  and  compromised  on  a  flat  bottom. 
Observe  how  the  ways  of  deception  lead  to  transgression : 
I  recalled  the  cast-off  lumber  pile  of  Jarvis,  the  carpenter,  a 
good-natured  Englishman,  coarse  and  fat :  in  our  neighbour 
hood  his  reputation  for  obscenity  was  so  well  known  to 
mothers  that  I  had  been  forbidden  to  go  near  him  or  his 
shop  Grits  Jarvis,  his  son,  who  had  inherited  the  talent, 
was  also  contraband.  I  can  see  now  the  huge  bulk  of  the 
elder  Jarvis  as  he  stood  in  the  melting,  soot-powdered  snow 
in  front  of  his  shop,  and  hear  his  comments  on  my  perti 
nacity. 

"  If  you  ever  wants  another  man's  missus  when  you  grows 
up,  my  lad,  Gawd  'elp  'im !" 

"Why  should  I  want  another  man's  wife  when  I  don't 
want  one  of  my  own?"  I  demanded,  indignant. 

He  laughed  with  his  customary  lack  of  moderation. 

"You  mind  what  old  Jarvis  says,"  he  cried.  "What  you 
wants,  you  gets." 

I  did  get  his  boards,  by  sheer  insistence.  No  doubt  they 
were  not  very  valuable,  and  without  question  he  more  than 
made  up  for  them  in  my  mother's  bill.  I  also  got  some 
thing  else  of  equal  value  to  me  at  the  moment,  —  the  assist 
ance  of  Grits,  the  contraband ;  daily,  after  school,  I  smuggled 
him  into  the  shed  through  the  alley,  acquiring  likewise  the 
services  of  Tom  Peters,  which  was  more  of  a  triumph  than 
it  would  seem.  Tom  always  had  to  be  "worked  up"  to 
participation  in  my  ideas,  but  in  the  end  he  almost  invariably 
succumbed.  The  notion  of  building  a  boat  in  the  dead  of 
winter,  and  so  far  from  her  native  element,  naturally  struck 
him  at  first  as  ridiculous.  Where  in  Jehoshaphat  was  I  going 
to  sail  it  if  I  ever  got  it  made  ?  He  much  preferred  to  throw 
snowballs  at  innocent  wagon  drivers. 

All  that  Tom  saw,  at  first,  was  a  dirty,  coal-spattered  shed 
with  dim  recesses,  for  it  was  lighted  on  one  side  only,  and  its 
temperature  was  somewhere  below  freezing.  Surely  he 
could  not  be  blamed  for  a  tempered  enthusiasm !  But  for 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  17 

me,  all  the  dirt  and  cold  and  discomfort  were  blotted  out, 
and  I  beheld  a  gallant  craft  manned  by  sturdy  seamen  forging 
her  way  across  blue  water  in  the  South  Seas.  Treasure 
Island,  alas,  was  as  yet  unwritten;  but  among  my  father's 
books  were  two  old  volumes  in  which  I  had  hitherto  taken 
no  interest,  with  crude  engravings  of  palms  and  coral  reefs, 
of  naked  savages  and  tropical  mountains  covered  with  jungle, 
the  adventures,  in  brief,  of  one  Captain  Cook.  I  also  dis 
covered  a  book  by  a  later  traveller.  Spurred  on  by  a  myste 
rious  motive  power,  and  to  the  great  neglect  of  the  pons 
asinorum  and  the  staple  products  of  the  Southern  States,  I 
gathered  an  amazing  amount  of  information  concerning  a 
remote  portion  of  the  globe,  of  head-hunters  and  poisoned 
stakes,  of  typhoons,  of  queer  war-craft  that  crept  up  on 
you  while  you  were  dismantling  galleons,  when  desperate 
hand-to-hand  encounters  ensued.  Little  by  little  as  I  wove 
all  this  into  personal  adventures  soon  to  be  realized,  Tom 
forgot  the  snowballs  and  the  maddened  grocerymen  who 
chased  him  around  the  block ;  while  Grits  would  occasion 
ally  stop  sawing  and  cry  out :  — 

"Ah,  s'y !"  frequently  adding  that  he  would  be  G — d — d. 

The  cold  woodshed  became  a  chantry  on  the  New  England 
coast,  the  alley  the  wintry  sea  soon  to  embrace  our  ship, 
the  saw-horses  —  which  stood  between  a  coal-bin  on  one 
side  and  unused  stalls  filled  with  rubbish  and  kindling  on 
the  other  —  the  ways ;  the  yard  behind  the  lattice  fence 
became  a  backwater,  the  flapping  clothes  the  sails  of  ships 
that  took  refuge  there  —  on  Mondays  and  Tuesdays. 
Even  my  father  was  symbolized  with  unparalleled  audacity 
as  a  watchful  government  which  had,  up  to  the  present,  no 
inkling  of  our  semi-piratical  intentions !  The  cook  and  the 
housemaid,  though  remonstrating  against  the  presence  of 
Grits,  were  friendly  confederates;  likewise  old  Cephas,  the 
darkey  who,  from  my  earliest  memory,  carried  coal  and  wood 
and  blacked  the  shoes,  washed  the  windows  and  scrubbed 
the  steps. 

One  afternoon  Tom  went  to  work. 


18  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

The  history  of  the  building  of  the  good  ship  Petrel  is 
similar  to  that  of  all  created  things,  a  story  of  trial  and  error 
and  waste.  At  last,  one  March  day  she  stood  ready  for 
launching.  She  had  even  been  caulked ;  for  Grits,  from  an 
unknown  and  unquestionably  dubious  source,  had  procured 
a  bucket  of  tar,  which  we  heated  over  a  fire  in  the  alley  and 
smeared  into  every  crack.  It  was  natural  that  the  news  of 
such  a  feat  as  we  were  accomplishing  should  have  leaked  out, 
that  the  "yard"  should  have  been  visited  from  time  to  time 
by  interested  friends,  some  of  whom  came  to  admire,  some  to 
scoff,  and  all  to  speculate.  Among  the  scoffers,  of  course,  was 
Ralph  Hambleton,  who  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  cheerfully  predicted  all  sorts  of  dire  calamities.  Ralph 
was  always  a  superior  boy,  tall  and  a  trifle  saturnine  and 
cynical,  with  an  amazing  self-confidence  not  wholly  due  to 
the  wealth  of  his  father,  the  iron-master.  He  was  older 
than  I. 

"She  won't  float  five  minutes,  if  you  ever  get  her  to  the 
water,"  was  his  comment,  and  in  this  he  was  supported  on 
general  principles  by  Julia  and  Russell  Peters.  Ralph  would 
have  none  of  the  Petrel,  or  of  the  South  Seas  either ;  but  he 
wanted,  —  so  he  said,  —  "to  be  in  at  the  death."  The 
Hambletons  were  one  of  the  few  families  who  at  that  time 
went  to  the  sea  for  the  summer,  and  from  a  practical  knowl 
edge  of  craft  in  general  Ralph  was  not  slow  to  point  out  the 
defects  of  ours.  Tom  and  I  defended  her  passionately. 

Ralph  was  not  a  romanticist.  He  was  a  born  leader, 
excelling  at  organized  games,  exercising  over  boys  the  sort 
of  fascination  that  comes  from  doing  everything  better  and 
more  easily  than  others.  It  was  only  during  the  progress  of 
such  enterprises  as  this  affair  of  the  Petrel  that  I  succeeded 
in  winning  their  allegiance;  bit  by  bit,  as  Tom's  had  been 
won,  fanning  their  enthusiasm  by  impersonating  at  once 
Achilles  and  Homer,  recruiting  while  relating  the  Odyssey  of 
the  expedition  in  glpwing  colours.  Ralph  always  scoffed,  and 
when  I  had  no  scheme  on  foot  they  went  back  to  him.  Hav 
ing  surveyed  the  boat  and  predicted  calamity,  he  departed, 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  19 

leaving  a  circle  of  quaint  and  youthful  figures  around  the 
Petrel  in  the  shed :  Gene  Hollister,  romantically  inclined, 
yet  somewhat  hampered  by  a  strict  parental  supervision; 
Ralph's  cousin  Ham  Durrett,  who  was  even  then  a  rather 
fat  boy,  good-natured  but  selfish ;  Don  and  Harry  Ewan,  my 
second  cousins ;  Mac  and  Nancy  Willett  and  Sam  and  Sophy 
McAlery.  Nancy  was  a  tomboy,  not  to  be  denied,  and  Sophy 
her  shadow.  We  held  a  council,  the  all-important  question 
of  which  was  how  to  get  the  Petrel  to  the  water,  and  what 
water  to  get  her  to.  The  river  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  and 
Blackstone  Lake  some  six  miles  from  town.  Finally,  Logan's 
mill-pond  was  decided  on,  —  a  muddy  sheet  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  city.  But  how  to  get  her  to  Logan's  mill-pond? 
Cephas  was  at  length  consulted.  It  turned  out  that  he  had 
a  coloured  friend  who  went  by  the  impressive  name  of 
Thomas  Jefferson  Taliaferro  (pronounced  Tolliver),  who  was 
in  the  express  business;  and  who,  after  surveying  the  boat 
with  some  misgivings,  —  for  she  was  ten  feet  long,  —  finally 
consented  to  transport  her  to  "tide-water"  for  the  sum  of 
two  dollars.  But  it  proved  that  our  combined  resources 
only  amounted  to  a  dollar  and  seventy-five  cents.  Ham 
Durrett  never  contributed  to  anything.  On  this  sum  Thomas 
Jefferson  compromised. 

Saturday  dawned  clear,  with  a  stiff  March  wind  catching 
up  the  dust  into  eddies  and  whirling  it  down  the  street. 
No  sooner  was  my  father  safely  on  his  way  to  his  office  than 
Thomas  Jefferson  was  reported  to  be  in  the  alley,  where  we 
assembled,  surveying  with  some  misgivings  Thomas  Jeffer 
son's  steed,  whose  ability  to  haul  the  Petrel  two  miles  seemed 
somewhat  doubtful.  Other  difficulties  developed ;  the  door 
in  the  back  of  the  shed  proved  to  be  too  narrow  for  our 
ship's  beam.  But  men  embarked  on  a  desperate  enterprise 
are  not  to  be  stopped  by  such  trifles,  and  the  problem  was 
solved  by  sawing  out  two  adjoining  boards.  These  were 
afterwards  replaced  with  skill  by  the  ship's  carpenter,  Able 
Seaman  Grits  Jarvis.  Then  the  Petrel  by  heroic  efforts 
was  got  into  the  wagon,  the  seat  of  which  had  been  removed, 


20  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

old  Thomas  Jefferson  perched  himself  precariously  in  the 
bow  and  protestingly  gathered  up  his  rope-patched  reins. 

"Folks'll  'low  I'se  plum  crazy,  driviri  dis  yere  boat,"  he 
declared,  observing  with  concern  that  some  four  feet  of  the 
stern  projected  over  the  tail-board.  "Ef  she  topples,  I'll 
git  to  heaven  quicker'n  a  bullet." 

When  one  is  shanghaied,  however,  —  in  the  hands  of 
buccaneers,  —  it  is  too  late  to  withdraw.  Six  shoulders 
upheld  the  rear  end  of  the  Petrel,  others  shoved,  and  Thomas 
Jefferson's  rickety  horse  began  to  move  forward  in  spite  of 
himself.  An  expression  of  sheer  terror  might  have  been 
observed  on  the  old  negro's  crinkled  face,  but  his  voice 
was  drowned,  and  we  swept  out  of  the  alley.  Scarcely  had 
we  travelled  a  block  before  we  began  to  be  joined  by  all  the 
boys  along  the  line  of  march ;  marbles,  tops,  and  even  incip 
ient  baseball  games  were  abandoned  that  Saturday  morning ; 
people  ran  out  of  their  houses,  teamsters  halted  their  carts. 
The  breathless  excitement,  the  exaltation  I  had  felt  on  leaving 
the  alley  were  now  tinged  with  other  feelings,  unanticipated, 
but  not  wholly  lacking  in  delectable  quality,  —  concern  and 
awe  at  these  unforeseen  forces  I  had  raised,  at  this  ever 
growing  and  enthusiastic  body  of  volunteers  springing  up 
like  dragon's  teeth  in  our  path.  After  all,  was  not  I  the  hero 
of  this  triumphal  procession?  The  thought  was  consoling, 
exhilarating.  And  here  was  Nancy  marching  at  my  side, 
a  little  subdued,  perhaps,  but  unquestionably  admiring  and 
realizing  that  it  was  I  who  had  created  all  this.  Nancy, 
who  was  the  aptest  of  pupils,  the  most  loyal  of  followers, 
though  I  did  not  yet  value  her  devotion  at  its  real  worth, 
because  she  was  a  girl.  Her  imagination  kindled  at  my 
touch.  And  on  this  eventful  occasion  she  carried  in  her 
arms  a  parcel,  the  contents  of  which  were  unknown  to  all 
but  ourselves.  At  length  we  reached  the  muddy  shores  of 
Logan's  pond,  where  two  score  eager  hands  volunteered  to 
assist  the  Petrel  into  her  native  element. 

Alas !  that  the  reality  never  attains  to  the  vision.  I  had 
beheld,  in  my  dreams,  the  Petrel  about  to  take  the  water, 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  21 

and  Nancy  Willett  standing  very  straight  making  a  little 
speech  and  crashing  a  bottle  of  wine  across  the  bows.  This 
was  the  content  of  the  mysterious  parcel;  she  had  stolen 
it  from  her  father's  cellar.  But  the  number  of  uninvited 
spectators,  which  had  not  been  foreseen,  considerably  modi 
fied  the  programme,  —  as  the  newspapers  would  have  said. 
They  pushed  and  crowded  around  the  ship,  and  made  frank 
and  even  brutal  remarks  as  to  her  seaworthiness;  even 
Nancy,  inured  though  she  was  to  the  masculine  sex,  had 
fled  to  the  heights,  and  it  looked  at  this  supreme  moment  as 
though  we  should  have  to  fight  for  the  Petrel.  An  attempt 
to  muster  her  doughty  buccaneers  failed;  the  gunner  too 
had  fled,  —  Gene  Hollister ;  Ham  Durrett  and  the  Ewanses 
were  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  a  muster  revealed  only  Tom, 
the  fidus  Achates,  and  Grits  Jarvis. 

"Ah,  s'y!"  he  exclaimed  in  the  teeth  of  the  menacing 
hordes.  "Stand  back,  carn't  yer?  I'll  bash  yer  face  in, 
Johnny.  Whose  boat  is  this?" 

Shall  it  be  whispered  that  I  regretted  his  belligerency? 
Here,  in  truth,  was  the  drama  staged,  —  my  drama,  had  I 
only  been  able  to  realize  it.  The  good  ship  beached,  the  head- 
hunters  hemming  us  in  on  all  sides,  the  scene  prepared  for 
one  of  those  struggles  against  frightful  odds  which  I  had  so 
graphically  related  as  an  essential  part  of  our  adventures. 

"Let's  roll  the  cuss  in  the  fancy  collar,"  proposed  one  of 
the  head-hunters,  —  meaning  me. 

"  I'll  stove  yer  slats  if  yer  touch  him,"  said  Grits,  and  then 
resorted  to  appeal.  "I  s'y,  carn't  yer  stand  back  and  let 
a  chap  'ave  a  charnst?" 

The  head-hunters  only  jeered.  And  what  shall  be  said  of 
the  Captain  in  this  moment  of  peril  ?  Shall  it  be  told  that 
his  heart  was  beating  wildly  ?  —  bumping  were  a  better 
word.  He  was  trying  to  remember  that  he  was  the  Captain. 
Otherwise,  he  must  admit  with  shame  that  he,  too,  should 
have  fled.  So  much  for  romance  when  the  test  comes.  Will 
he  remain  to  fall  fighting  for  his  ship?  Like  Horatius,  he 
glanced  up  at  the  hill,  where,  instead  of  the  porch  of  the 


20  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

old  Thomas  Jefferson  perched  himself  precariously  in  the 
bow  and  protestingly  gathered  up  his  rope-patched  reins. 

"Folks'll  'low  I'se  plum  crazy,  drivin'  dis  yere  boat,"  he 
declared,  observing  with  concern  that  some  four  feet  of  the 
stern  projected  over  the  tail-board.  "Ef  she  topples,  I'll 
git  to  heaven  quicker'n  a  bullet." 

When  one  is  shanghaied,  however,  —  in  the  hands  of 
buccaneers,  —  it  is  too  late  to  withdraw.  Six  shoulders 
upheld  the  rear  end  of  the  Petrel,  others  shoved,  and  Thomas 
Jefferson's  rickety  horse  began  to  move  forward  in  spite  of 
himself.  An  expression  of  sheer  terror  might  have  been 
observed  on  the  old  negro's  crinkled  face,  but  his  voice 
was  drowned,  and  we  swept  out  of  the  alley.  Scarcely  had 
we  travelled  a  block  before  we  began  to  be  joined  by  all  the 
boys  along  the  line  of  march ;  marbles,  tops,  and  even  incip 
ient  baseball  games  were  abandoned  that  Saturday  morning ; 
people  ran  out  of  their  houses,  teamsters  halted  their  carts. 
The  breathless  excitement,  the  exaltation  I  had  felt  on  leaving 
the  alley  were  now  tinged  with  other  feelings,  unanticipated, 
but  not  wholly  lacking  in  delectable  quality,  —  concern  and 
awe  at  these  unforeseen  forces  I  had  raised,  at  this  ever 
growing  and  enthusiastic  body  of  volunteers  springing  up 
like  dragon's  teeth  in  our  path.  After  all,  was  not  I  the  hero 
of  this  triumphal  procession?  The  thought  was  consoling, 
exhilarating.  And  here  was  Nancy  marching  at  my  side, 
a  little  subdued,  perhaps,  but  unquestionably  admiring  and 
realizing  that  it  was  I  who  had  created  all  this.  Nancy, 
who  was  the  aptest  of  pupils,  the  most  loyal  of  followers, 
though  I  did  not  yet  value  her  devotion  at  its  real  worth, 
because  she  was  a  girl.  Her  imagination  kindled  at  my 
touch.  And  on  this  eventful  occasion  she  carried  in  her 
arms  a  parcel,  the  contents  of  which  were  unknown  to  all 
but  ourselves.  At  length  we  reached  the  muddy  shores  of 
Logan's  pond,  where  two  score  eager  hands  volunteered  to 
assist  the  Petrel  into  her  native  element. 

Alas !  that  the  reality  never  attains  to  the  vision.  I  had 
beheld,  in  my  dreams,  the  Petrel  about  to  take  the  water, 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  21 

and  Nancy  Willett  standing  very  straight  making  a  little 
speech  and  crashing  a  bottle  of  wine  across  the  bows.  This 
was  the  content  of  the  mysterious  parcel;  she  had  stolen 
it  from  her  father's  cellar.  But  the  number  of  uninvited 
spectators,  which  had  not  been  foreseen,  considerably  modi 
fied  the  programme,  —  as  the  newspapers  would  have  said. 
They  pushed  and  crowded  around  the  ship,  and  made  frank 
and  even  brutal  remarks  as  to  her  seaworthiness;  even 
Nancy,  inured  though  she  was  to  the  masculine  sex,  had 
fled  to  the  heights,  and  it  looked  at  this  supreme  moment  as 
though  we  should  have  to  fight  for  the  Petrel.  An  attempt 
to  muster  her  doughty  buccaneers  failed;  the  gunner  too 
had  fled,  —  Gene  Hollister ;  Ham  Durrett  and  the  Ewanses 
were  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  a  muster  revealed  only  Tom, 
the  fidus  Achates,  and  Grits  Jarvis. 

"Ah,  s'y!"  he  exclaimed  in  the  teeth  of  the  menacing 
hordes.  "Stand  back,  carn't  yer?  I'll  bash  yer  face  in, 
Johnny.  Whose  boat  is  this?" 

Shall  it  be  whispered  that  I  regretted  his  belligerency? 
Here,  in  truth,  was  the  drama  staged,  —  my  drama,  had  I 
only  been  able  to  realize  it.  The  good  ship  beached,  the  head- 
hunters  hemming  us  in  on  all  sides,  the  scene  prepared  for 
one  of  those  struggles  against  frightful  odds  which  I  had  so 
graphically  related  as  an  essential  part  of  our  adventures. 

"Let's  roll  the  cuss  in  the  fancy  collar,"  proposed  one  of 
the  head-hunters,  —  meaning  me. 

"  I'll  stove  yer  slats  if  yer  touch  him,"  said  Grits,  and  then 
resorted  to  appeal.  "I  s'y,  carn't  yer  stand  back  and  let 
a  chap  'ave  a  charnst?" 

The  head-hunters  only  jeered.  And  what  shall  be  said  of 
the  Captain  in  this  moment  of  peril  ?  Shall  it  be  told  that 
his  heart  was  beating  wildly  ?  —  bumping  were  a  better 
word.  He  was  trying  to  remember  that  he  was  the  Captain. 
Otherwise,  he  must  admit  with  shame  that  he,  too,  should 
have  fled.  So  much  for  romance  when  the  test  comes.  Will 
he  remain  to  fall  fighting  for  his  ship?  Like  Horatius,  he 
glanced  up  at  the  hill,  where,  instead  of  the  porch  of  the 


22  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

home  where  he  would  fain  have  been,  he  beheld  a  wisp  of  a 
girl  standing  alone,  her  hat  on  the  back  of  her  head,  her 
hair  flying  in  the  wind,  gazing  intently  down  at  him  in  his 
danger.  The  renegade  crew  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  There 
are  those  who  demand  the  presence  of  a  woman  in  order  to 
be  heroes.  .  .  . 

"  Give  us  a  chance,  can't  you  ? "  he  cried,  repeating  Grits's 
appeal  in  not  quite  such  a  stentorian  tone  as  he  would  have 
liked,  while  his  hand  trembled  on  the  gunwale.  Tom 
Peters,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  was  much  more  of  a  bucca 
neer  when  it  was  a  question  of  deeds,  for  he  planted  himself 
in  the  way  of  the  belligerent  chief  of  the  head-hunters  (who 
spoke  with  a  decided  brogue). 

"Get  out  of  the  way!"  said  Tom,  with  a  little  squeak  in 
his  voice.  Yet  there  he  was,  and  he  deserves  a  tribute. 

An  unlooked-for  diversion  saved  us  from  annihilation,  — 
in  the  shape  of  one  who  had  a  talent  for  creating  them.  We 
were  bewilderingly  aware  of  a  girlish  figure  amongst  us. 

"You  cowards!"  she  cried.     "You  cowards!" 

Lithe,  and  fairly  quivering  with  passion,  it  was  Nancy  who 
showed  us  how  to  face  the  head-hunters.  They  gave  back. 
They  would  have  been  brave  indeed  if  they  had  not  retreated 
before  such  an  intense  little  nucleus  of  energy  and  indigna 
tion  !  .  .  . 

"Ah,  give  'em  a  chanst,"  said  their  chief,  after  a  moment. 
.  .  .  He  even  helped  to  push  the  boat  towards  the  water. 
But  he  did  not  volunteer  to  be  one  of  those  to  man  the 
Petrel  on  her  maiden  voyage.  Nor  did  Logan's  pond,  that 
wild  March  day,  greatly  resemble  the  South  Seas,  Neverthe 
less,  my  eye  on  Nancy,  I  stepped  proudly  aboard  and  seized 
an  "oar."  Grits  and  Tom  followed,  —  when  suddenly  the 
Petrel  sank  considerably  below  the  water-line  as  her  builders 
had  estimated  it.  Ere  we  fully  realized  this,  the  now  friendly 
head-hunters  had  given  us  a  shove,  and  we  were  off !  The 
Captain,  who  should  have  been  waving  good-bye  to  his  lady 
love  from  the  poop,  sat  down  abruptly,  —  the  crew  likewise ; 
not,  however,  before  she  had  heeled  to  the  scuppers,  and  a 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  23 

half-bucket  of  iced  water  had  run  it.  Head-hunters  were 
mere  daily  episodes  in  Grits's  existence,  but  water  .  .  .  He 
muttered  something  in  cockney  that  sounded  like  a  prayer. 
.  .  .  The  wind  was  rapidly  driving  us  toward  the  middle 
of  the  pond,  and  something  cold  and  ticklish  was  seeping 
through  the  seats  of  our  trousers.  We  sat  like  statues.  .  .  . 

The  bright  scene  etched  itself  in  my  memory  —  the  bare 
brown  slopes  with  which  the  pond  was  bordered,  the  Irish 
shanties,  the  clothes-lines  with  red  flannel  shirts  snapping 
in  the  biting  wind ;  Nancy  motionless  on  the  bank ;  the 
group  behind  her,  silent  now,  impressed  in  spite  of  itself  at 
the  sight  of  our  intrepidity. 

The  Petrel  was  sailing  stern  first.  .  .  .  Would  any  of  us, 
indeed,  ever  see  home  again?  I  thought  of  my  father's 
wrath  turned  to  sorrow  because  he  had  refused  to  gratify  a 
son's  natural  wish  and  present  him  with  a  real  rowboat. 
.  .  .  Out  of  the  corners  of  our  eyes  we  watched  the  water 
creeping  around  the  gunwale,  and  the  very  muddiness  of 
it  seemed  to  enhance  its  coldness,  to  make  the  horrors 
of  its  depths  more  mysterious  and  hideous.  The  voice  of 
Grits  startled  us. 

"O  Gawd,"  he  was  saying,  "we're  a-going  to  sink,  and  I 
carn't  swim  !  The  blarsted  tar's  give  way  back  here." 

"Is  she  leaking?"  I  cried. 

"She's  a-filling  up  like  a  barth  tub,"  he  lamented. 

Slowly  but  perceptibly,  in  truth,  the  bow  was  rising,  and 
above  the  whistling  of  the  wind  I  could  hear  his  chattering 
as  she  settled.  .  .  .  Then  several  things  happened  simul 
taneously  :  an  agonized  cry  behind  me,  distant  shouts  from 
the  shore,  a  sudden  upward  lunge  of  the  bow,  and  the 
torture  of  being  submerged,  inch  by  inch,  in  the  icy,  yellow 
water.  Despite  the  splashing  behind  me,  I  sat  as  though 
paralyzed  until  I  was  waist  deep  and  the  boards  turned 
under  me,  and  then,  with  a  spasmodic  contraction  of  my 
whole  being  I  struck  out  —  only  to  find  my  feet  on  the 
muddy  bottom.  Such  was  the  inglorious  end  of  the  good 
ship  Petrel!  For  she  went  down,  with  all  hands,  in  little 


24  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

more  than  half  a  fathom  of  water.  ...  It  was  not  until 
then  I  realized  that  we  had  been  blown  clear  across  the  pond ! 

Figures  were  running  along  the  shore.  And  as  Tom  and 
I  emerged  dragging  Grits  between  us,  —  for  he  might  have 
been  drowned  there  abjectly  in  the  shallows,  —  we  were 
met  by  a  stout  and  bare-armed  Irishwoman  whose  scanty 
hair,  I  remember,  was  drawn  into  a  tight  knot  behind  her 
head;  and  who  seized  us,  all  three,  as  though  we  were  a 
bunch  of  carrots. 

"  Come  along  wid  ye ! "  she  cried. 

Shivering,  we  followed  her  up  the  hill,  the  spectators  of 
the  tragedy,  who  by  this  time  had  come  around  the  pond, 
trailing  after.  Nancy  was  not  among  them.  Inside  the 
shanty  into  which  we  were  thrust  were  two  small  children 
crawling  about  the  floor,  and  the  place  was  filled  with 
steam  from  a  wash-tub  against  the  wall  and  a  boiler  on  the 
stove.  With  a  vigorous  injunction  to  make  themselves 
scarce,  the  Irishwoman  slammed  the  door  in  the  faces  of  the 
curious  and  ordered  us  to  remove  our  clothes.  Grits  was  put 
to  bed  in  a  corner,  while  Tom  and  I,  provided  with  various 
garments,  huddled  over  the  stove.  There  fell  to  my  lot  the 
red  flannel  shirt  which  I  had  seen  on  the  clothes-line.  She 
gave  us  hot  coffee,  and  was  back  at  her  wash-tub  in  no  time 
at  all,  her  entire  comment  on  a  proceeding  that  seemed  to 
Tom  and  me  to  'have  certain  elements  of  gravity  being, 
"By's  will  be  by's  I"  The  final  ironical  touch  was  given  the 
anti-climax  when  our  rescuer  turned  out  to  be  the  mother  of 
the  chief  of  the  head-hunters  himself !  He  had  lingered  per 
force  with  his  brothers  and  sister  outside  the  cabin  until 
dinner  time,  and  when  he  came  in  he  was  meek  as  Moses. 

Thus  the  ready  hospitality  of  the  poor,  which  passed  over  the 
heads  of  Tom  and  me  as  we  ate  bread  and  onions  and  potatoes 
with  a  ravenous  hunger.  It  must  have  been  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  we  bade  good-bye  to  our  pre 
server  and  departed  for  home.  .  .  . 

At  first  we  went  at  a  dog-trot,  but  presently  slowed 
down  to  discuss  the  future  looming  portentously  ahead 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  25 

of  us.  Since  entire  concealment  was  now  impossible,  the 
question  was,  —  how  complete  a  confession  would  be  necessary  ? 
Our  cases,  indeed,  were  dissimilar,  and  Tom's  incentive  to 
hold  back  the  facts  was  not  nearly  so  great  as  mine.  It  some 
times  seemed  to  me  in  those  days  unjust  that  the  Peterses 
were  able  on  the  whole  to  keep  out  of  criminal  difficulties,  in 
which  I  was  more  or  less  continuously  involved :  for  it  did  not 
'  strike  me  that  their  sins  were  not  those  of  the  imagination. 
The  method  of  Tom's  father  was  the  slipper.  He  and  Tom 
understood  each  other,  while  between  my  father  and  myself 
was  a  great  gulf  fixed.  Not  that  Tom  yearned  for  the  slipper ; 
but  he  regarded  its  occasional  applications  as  being  as  inevi 
table  as  changes  in  the  weather ;  lying  did  not  come  easily  to 
huii,  and  left  to  himself  he  much  preferred  to  confess  and 
have  the  matter  over  with.  I  have  already  suggested  that 
I  had  cultivated  lying,  that  weapon  of  the  weaker  party, 
in  some  degree,  at  least,  in  self-defence. 

Tom  was  loyal.  Moreover,  my  conviction  would  prob 
ably  deprive  him  for  six  whole  afternoons  of  my  company, 
on  which  he  was  more  or  less  dependent.  But  the  defence 
of  this  case  presented  unusual  difficulties,  and  we  stopped 
several  times  to  thrash  them  out.  We  had  been  absent 
from  dinner,  and  doubtless  by  this  time  Julia  had  informed 
Tom's  mother  of  the  expedition,  and  anyone  could  see  that 
our  clothing  had  been  wet.  So  I  lingered  in  no  little  anx 
iety  behind  the  Peters  stable  while  he  made  the  investi 
gation.  Our  spirits  rose  considerably  when  he  returned 
to  report  that  Julia  had  unexpectedly  been  a  trump,  having 
quieted  his  mother  by  the  surmise  that  he  was  spending 
the  day  with  his  Aunt  Fanny.  So  far,  so  good.  The  prob 
lem  now  was  to  decide  upon  what  to  admit.  For  we  must 
both  tell  the  same  story. 

It  was  agreed  that  we  had  fallen  into  Logan's  Pond  from 
a  raft:  my  suggestion.  Well,  said  Tom,  the  Petrel  hadn't 
proved  much  better  than  a  raft,  after  all.  I  was  in  no  mood 
to  defend  her. 

This  designation  of  the  Petrel  as  a  "raft"  was  my  first 


26  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

legal  quibble.  The  question  to  be  decided  by  the  court 
was,  What  is  a  raft?  just  as  the  supreme  tribunal  of  the 
land  has  been  required,  in  later  years,  to  decide,  What  is 
whiskey?  The  thing  to  be  concealed  if  possible  was  the 
building  of  the  "raft,"  although  this  information  was 
already  in  the  possession  of  a  number  of  persons,  whose 
fathers  might  at  any  moment  see  fit  to  congratulate  my 
own  on  being  the  parent  of  a  genius.  It  was  a  risk,  how 
ever,  that  had  to  be  run.  And,  secondly,  since  Grits  Jarvis 
was  contraband,  nothing  was  to  be  said  about  him. 


I  have  not  said  much  about  my  mother,  who  might  have 
been  likened  on  such  occasions  to  a  grand  jury  compelled 
to  indict,  yet  torn  between  loyalty  to  an  oath  and  sym 
pathy  with  the  defendant.  I  went  through  the  Peters  yard, 
climbed  the  wire  fence,  my  object  being  to  discover  first 
from  Ella,  the  housemaid,  or  Hannah,  the  cook,  how  much 
was  known  in  high  quarters.  It  was  Hannah  who,  as  I 
opened  the  kitchen  door,  turned  at  the  sound,  and  set  down 
the  saucepan  she  was  scouring. 

"Is  it  home  ye  are?  Mercy  to  goodness!"  (this  on  be 
holding  my  shrunken  costume)  "Glory  be  to  God  you're 
not  drownded !  and  your  mother  worritin '  her  heart  out ! 
So  it's  into  the  wather  ye  were  ? " 

I  admitted  it. 

"Hannah?"  I  said  softly. 

"What  then?" 

"  Does  mother  know  —  about  the  boat  ?  " 

"Now  don't  ye  be  wheedlinV 

I  managed  to  discover,  however,  that  my  mother  did  not 
know,  and  surmised  that  the  best  reason  why  she  had  not 
been  told  had  to  do  with  Hannah's  criminal  acquiescence 
concerning  the  operations  in  the  shed.  I  ran  into  the 
front  hall  and  up  the  stairs,  and  my  mother  heard  me 
coming  and  met  me  on  the  landing. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  27 

"Hugh,  where  have  you  been  ?" 

As  I  emerged  from  the  semi-darkness  of  the  stairway 
she  caught  sight  of  my  dwindled  garments,  of  the  trousers 
well  above  my  ankles.  Suddenly  she  had  me  in  her  arms 
and  was  kissing  me  passionately.  As  she  stood  before  me 
in  her  grey,  belled  skirt,  the  familar  red-and-white  cameo  at 
her  throat,  her  heavy  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  in  her  eyes 
was  an  odd,  appealing  look  which  I  know  now  was  a  sign  of 
mother  love  struggling  with  a  Presbyterian  conscience. 
Though  she  inherited  that  conscience,  I  have  often  thought 
she  might  have  succeeded  in  casting  it  off — or  at  least  some  of 
it  —  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that  in  spite  of  herself  she 
worshipped  its  incarnation  in  the  shape  of  my  father.  Her 
voice  trembled  a  little  as  she  drew  me  to  the  sofa  beside 
the  window. 

"Tell  me  about  what  happened,  my  son,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  terrible  moment  for  me.  For  my  affections 
were  still  quiveringly  alive  in  those  days,  and  I  loved  her. 
I  had  for  an  instant  an  instinctive  impulse  to  tell  her  the 
whole  story,  —  South  Sea  Islands  and  all !  And  I  could 
have  done  it  had  I  not  beheld  looming  behind  her  another 
figure  which  represented  a  stern  and  unsympathetic  Author 
ity,  and  somehow  made  her,  suddenly,  of  small  account. 
Not  that  she  would  have  understood  the  romance,  but  she 
would  have  comprehended  me.  I  knew  that  she  was  power 
less  to  save  me  from  the  wrath  to  come.  I  wept.  It  was- 
because  I  hated  to  lie  to  her,  —  yet  I  did  so.  Fear  gripped 
me,  and  —  like  some  respectable  criminals  I  have  since 
known  —  I  understood  that  any  confession  I  made  would 
inexorably  be  used  against  me.  ...  I  wonder  whether 
she  knew  I  was  lying?  At  any  rate,  the  case  appeared  to 
be  a  grave  one,  and  I  was  presently  remanded  to  my  room 
to  be  held  over  for  trial.  .  .  . 

Vividly,  as  I  write,  I  recall  the  misery  of  the  hours  I  have 
spent,  while  awaiting  sentence,  in  the  little  chamber  with 
the  honeysuckle  wall-paper  and  steel  engravings  of  happy 
but  dumpy  children  romping  in  the  fields  and  groves.  Oa 


28  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

this  particular  March  afternoon  the  weather  had  become 
morne,  as  the  French  say;  and  I  looked  down  sadly  into 
the  grey  back  yard  which  the  wind  of  the  morning  had 
strewn  with  chips  from  the  Petrel.  At  last,  when  shadows 
were  gathering  in  the  corners  of  the  room,  I  heard  footsteps. 
Ella  appeared,  prim  and  virtuous,  yet  a  little  commiser 
ating.  My  father  wished  to  see  me,  downstairs.  It  was 
not  the  first  time  she  had  brought  that  summons,  and  always 
her  manner  was  the  same ! 

The  scene  of  my  trials  was  always  the  sitting  room,  lined 
with  grim  books  in  their  walnut  cases.  And  my  father  sat, 
like  a  judge,  behind  the  big  desk  where  he  did  his  work  when 
at  home.  Oh,  the  distance  between  us  at  such  an  hour! 
I  entered  as  delicately  as  Agag,  and  the  expression  in  his 
eye  seemed  to  convict  me  before  I  could  open  my  mouth. 

"Hugh,"  he  said,  "your  mother  tells  me  that  you  have 
confessed  to  going,  without  permission,  to  Logan's  Pond, 
where  you  embarked  on  a  raft  and  fell  into  the  water." 

The  slight  emphasis  he  contrived  to  put  on  the  word  raft 
sent  a  colder  shiver  down  my  spine  than  the  iced  water  had 
done.  What  did  he  know?  or  was  this  mere  suspicion? 
Too  late,  now,  at  any  rate,  to  plead  guilty. 

"It  was  a  sort  of  a  raft,  sir,"  I  stammered. 

"A  sort  of  a  raft,"  repeated  my  father.  "Where,  may  I 
ask,  did  you  find  it?" 

"I  —  I  didn't  exactly  find  it,  sir." 

"Ah!"  said  my  father.  (It  was  the  moment  to  glance 
meaningly  at  the  jury.)  The  prisoner  gulped.  "You  didn't 
exactly  find  it,  then.  Will  you  kindly  explain  how  you 
came  by  it?" 

"Well,  sir,  we  —  I  —  put  it  together." 

"Have  you  any  objection  to  stating,  Hugh,  in  plain  Eng 
lish,  that  you  made  it?" 

"No,  sir,  I  suppose  you  might  say  that  I  made  it." 

"Or  that  it  was  intended  for  a  row-boat?" 

Here  was  the  tune  to  appeal,  to  force  a  decision  as  to  what 
constituted  a  row-boat. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  29 

"Perhaps  it  might  be  called  a  row-boat,  sir,"  I  said  ab 
jectly. 

"Or  that,  in  direct  opposition  to  my  wishes  and  commands 
in  forbidding  you  to  have  a  boat,  to  spend  your  money  fool 
ishly  and  wickedly  on  a  whim,  you  constructed  one  secretly 
in  the  woodshed,  took  out  a  part  of  the  back  partition,  thus 
destroying  property  that  did  not  belong  to  you,  and  had 
the  boat  carted  this  morning  to  Logan's  Pond?" 

I  was  silent,  utterly  undone.  Evidently  he  had  specific 
information.  .  .  .  There  are  certain  expressions  that  are, 
at  times,  more  than  mere  figures  of  speech,  and  now  my 
father's  wrath  seemed  literally  towering.  It  added  visibly 
to  his  stature. 

"Hugh,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  penetrated  to  the  very 
corners  of  my  soul,  "I  utterly  fail  to  understand  you.  I 
cannot  imagine  how  a  son  of  mine,  a  son  of  your  mother  — 
who  is  the  very  soul  of  truthfulness  and  honour  —  can  be  a 
liar."  (Oh,  the  terrible  emphasis  he  put  on  that  word !) 
"  Nor  is  it  as  if  this  were  a  new  tendency  —  I  have  punished 
you  for  it  before.  Your  mother  and  I  have  tried  to  do  our 
duty  by  you,  to  instil  into  you  Christian  teaching.  But  it 
seems  wholly  useless.  I  confess  that  I  am  at  a  loss  how  to 
proceed.  You  seem  to  have  no  conscience  whatever,  no 
conception  of  what  you  owe  to  your  parents  and  your  God. 
You  not  only  persistently  disregard  my  wishes  and  com 
mands,  but  you  have,  for  many  months,  been  leading  a 
double  life,  facing  me  every  day,  while  you  were  secretly 
and  continually  disobeying  me.  I  shudder  to  think  wrhere 
this  determination  of  yours  to  have  what  you  desire  at  any 
price  will  lead  you  in  the  future.  It  is  just  such  a  desire 
that  distinguishes  wicked  men  from  good." 

I  will  not  linger  upon  a  scene  the  very  remembrance  of 
which  is  painful  to  this  day.  ...  I  went  from  my  father's 
presence  in  disgrace,  in  an  agony  of  spirit  that  was  over 
whelming,  to  lock  the  door  of  my  room  and  drop  face  down 
ward  on  the  bed,  to  sob  until  my  muscles  twitched.  For  he 
had,  indeed,  put  into  me  an  awful  fear.  The  greatest  horror 


30  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

of  my  boyish  imagination  was  a  wicked  man.  Was  I,  as  he 
had  declared,  utterly  depraved  and  doomed  in  spite  of  myself 
to  be  one  ? 

There  came  a  knock  at  my  door  —  Ella  with  my  supper. 
I  refused  to  open,  and  sent  her  away,  to  fall  on  my  knees  in 
the  darkness  and  pray  wildly  to  a  God  whose  attributes 
•and  character  were  sufficiently  confused  in  my  mind.  On 
the  one  hand  was  the  stern,  despotic  Monarch  of  the  West 
minster  Catechism,  whom  I  addressed  out  of  habit,  the 
Father  who  condemned  a  portion  of  his  children  from  the 
cradle.  Was  I  one  of  those  who  he  had  decreed  before 
I  was  born  must  suffer  the  tortures  of  the  flames  of  hell? 
Putting  two  and  two  together,  what  I  had  learned  in  Sunday 
school  and  gathered  from  parts  of  Dr.  Pound's  sermons, 
and  the  intimation  of  my  father  that  wickedness  was  within 
me,  like  an  incurable  disease,  —  was  not  mine  the  logical 
conclusion  ?  What,  then,  was  the  use  of  praying  ?  .  .  .  My 
supplications  ceased  abruptly.  And  my  ever  ready  imagi 
nation,  stirred  to  its  depths,  beheld  that  awful  scene  of  the 
last  day :  the  darkness,  such  as  sometimes  creeps  over  the 
city  in  winter,  when  the  jaundiced  smoke  falls  down  and  we 
read  at  noonday  by  gas-light.  I  beheld  the  tortured  faces 
of  the  wicked  gathered  on  the  one  side,  and  my  mother  on 
the  other  amongst  the  blessed,  gazing  across  the  gulf  at  me 
with  yearning  and  compassion.  Strange  that  it  did  not 
strike  me  that  the  sight  of  the  condemned  whom  they  had 
loved  in  life  would  have  marred  if  not  destroyed  the  happiness 
of  the  chosen,  about  to  receive  their  crowns  and  harps ! 
What  a  theology  —  that  made  the  Creator  and  Preserver 
of  all  mankind  thus  illogical  I 


Ill 


ALTHOUGH  I  was  imaginative,  I  was  not  morbidly  intro 
spective,  and  by  the  end  of  the  first  day  of  my  incarceration 
my  interest  in  that  solution  had  waned.  At  times,  however, 
I  actually  yearned  for  someone  in  whom  I  could  confide, 
who  could  suggest  a  solution.  I  repeat,  I  would  not  for 
worlds  have  asked  my  father  or  my  mother  or  Dr.  Pound, 
of  whom  I  had  a  wholesome  fear,  or  perhaps  an  unwhole 
some  one.  Except  at  morning  Bible  reading  and  at  church 
my  parents  never  mentioned  the  name  of  the  Deity,  save 
to  instruct  me  formally.  Intended  or  no,  the  effect  of  my 
religious  training  was  to  make  me  ashamed  of  discussing 
spiritual  matters,  and  naturally  I  failed  to  perceive  that  this 
was  because  it  laid  its  emphasis  on  personal  salvation.  .  .  . 
I  did  not,  however,  become  an  unbeliever,  for  I  was  not  of  a  na 
ture  to  contemplate  with  equanimity  a  godless  universe.  .  .  . 

My  sufferings  during  these  series  of  afternoon  confine 
ments  did  not  come  from  remorse,  but  were  the  result  of  a 
vague  sense  of  injury ;  and  their  effect  was  to  generate  within 
me  a  strange  motive  power,  a  desire  to  do  something  that 
would  astound  my  father  and  eventually  wring  from  him 
the  confession  that  he  had  misjudged  me.  To  be  sure,  I 
should  have  to  wait  until  early  manhood,  at  least,  for  the 
accomplishment  of  such  a  coup.  Might  it  not  be  that  I 
was  an  embryonic  literary  genius?  Many  were  the  books 
I  began  in  this  ecstasy  of  self-vindication,  only  to  abandon 
them  when  my  confinement  came  to  an  end. 


It  was  about  this  time,  I  think,  that  I  experienced  one  of 
those  shocks  which  have  a  permanent  effect  upon  character. 

31 


32  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

It  was  then  the  custom  for  ladies  to  spend  the  day  with  one 
another,  bringing  their  sewing;  and  sometimes,  when  I 
unexpectedly  entered  the  sitting-room,  the  voices  of  my 
mother's  visitors  would  drop  to  a  whisper.  One  afternoon  I 
returned  from  school  to  pause  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 
Cousin  Bertha  Ewan  and  Mrs.  McAlery  were  discussing 
with  my  mother  an  affair  that  I  judged  from  the  awed 
tone  in  which  they  spoke  might  prove  interesting. 

"  Poor  Grace,"  Mrs.  McAlery  was  saying,  "  I  imagine  she's 
paid  a  heavy  penalty.  No  man  alive  will  be  faithful  under 
those  circumstances." 

I  stopped  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  with  a  delicious,  guilty 
feeling. 

"Have  they  ever  heard  of  her?"  Cousin  Bertha  asked. 

"It  is  thought  they  went  to  Spain,"  replied  Mrs.  McAlery, 
solemnly,  yet  not  without  a  certain  zest.  "Mr.  Jules 
Hollister  will  not  have  her  name  mentioned  in  his  presence, 
you  know.  And  Whitcomb  chased  them  as  far  as  New  York 
with  a  horse-pistol  in  his  pocket.  The  report  is  that  he 
got  to  the  dock  just  as  the  ship  sailed.  And  then,  you 
know,  he  went  to  live  somewhere  out  West,  —  in  Iowa, 
I  believe.'* 

"Did  he  ever  get  a  divorce?"  Cousin  Bertha  inquired. 

"  He  was  too  good  a  church  member,  my  dear,"  my  mother 
reminded  her. 

"Well,  I'd  have  got  one  quick  enough,  church  member  or 
no  church  member,"  declared  Cousin  Bertha,  who  had  in 
her  elements  of  daring. 

"Not  that  I  mean  for  a  moment  to  excuse  her,"  Mrs. 
McAlery  put  in,  "  but  Edward  Whitcomb  did  have  a  frightful 
temper,  and  he  was  awfully  strict  with  her,  and  he  was  old 
enough,  anyhow,  to  be  her  father.  Grace  Hollister  was  the 
last  woman  in  the  world  I  should  have  suspected  of  doing  so 
hideous  a  thing.  She  was  so  sweet  and  simple." 

"Jennings  was  very  attractive,"  said  my  Cousin  Bertha. 
"I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  handsomer  man.  Now,  if  he 
had  looked  at  me  —  " 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  33 

The  sentence  was  never  finished,  for  at  this  crucial  moment 
I  dropped  a  grammar.  .  .  . 

I  had  heard  enough,  however,  to  excite  my  curiosity  to 
the  highest  pitch.  And  that  evening,  when  I  came  in  at 
five  o'clock  to  study,  I  asked  my  mother  what  had  become  of 
Gene  Hollister's  aunt. 

"She  went  away,  Hugh,"  replied  my  mother,  looking 
greatly  troubled. 

"Why?"  I  persisted. 

"It  is  something  you  are  too  young  to  understand." 

Of  course  I  started  an  investigation,  and  the  next  day  at 
school  I  asked  the  question  of  Gene  Hollister  himself,  — 
only  to  discover  that  he  believed  his  aunt  to  be  dead !  And 
that  night  he  asked  his  mother  if  his  Aunt  Grace  were  really 
alive,  after  all  ?  Whereupon  complications  and  explanations 
ensued  between  our  parents,  of  which  we  saw  only  the  surface 
signs.  .  .  .  My  father  accused  me  of  eavesdropping  (which 
I  denied),  and  sentenced  me  to  an  afternoon  of  solitary  con 
finement  for  repeating  something  which  I  had  heard  in 
private.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  my  mother  was  also 
reprimanded. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  permitted  the  matter  to 
rest.  In  addition  to  Grits  Jarvis,  there  was  another  contra 
band  among  my  acquaintances,  namely,  Alec  Pound,  the 
scrapegrace  son  of  the  Reverend  Doctor  Pound.  Alec  had 
an  encyclopaedic  mind,  especially  well  stocked  with  the  kind 
of  knowledge  I  now  desired;  first  and  last  he  taught  me 
much,  which  I  would  better  have  got  in  another  way.  To 
him  I  appealed  and  got  the  story,  my  worst  suspicions  being 
confirmed.  Mrs.  Whitcomb's  house  had  been  across  the 
alley  from  that  of  Mr.  Jennings,  but  no  one  knew  that 
anything  was  "going  on,"  though  there  had  been  sig 
nals  from  the  windows  —  the  neighbours  afterwards  re 
membered.  .  .  . 

I  listened  shudderingly. 

"But,"  I  cried,  "they  were  both  married!" 

"What   difference   does   that   make   when    you   love   a 


34  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

woman?"  Alec  replied  grandly.  "I  could  tell  you  much 
worse  things  than  that." 

This  he  proceeded  to  do.  Fascinated,  I  listened  with  a 
sickening  sensation.  It  was  a  mild  afternoon  in  spring,  and 
we  stood  in  the  deep  limestone  gutter  in  front  of  the  parson 
age,  a  little  Gothic  wooden  house  set  in  a  gloomy  yard. 

"/  thought,"  said  I,  "that  people  couldn't  love  any  more 
after  they  were  married,  except  each  other." 

Alec  looked  at  me  pityingly. 

"You'll  get  over  that  notion,"  he  assured  me. 

Thus  another  ingredient  entered  my  character.  Denied 
its  food  at  home,  good  food,  my  soul  eagerly  consumed  and 
made  part  of  itself  the  fermenting  stuff  that  Alec  Pound 
so  willing  distributed.  And  it  was  fermenting  stuff.  Let 
us  see  what  it  did  to  me.  Working  slowly  but  surely,  it 
changed  for  me  the  dawning  mystery  of  sex  into  an  evil 
instead  of  a  holy  one.  The  knowledge  of  the  tragedy  of 
Grace  Hollister  started  me  to  seeking  restlessly,  on  book 
shelves  and  elsewhere,  for  a  secret  that  forever  eluded  me, 
and  forever  led  me  on.  The  word  fermenting  aptly  describes 
the  process  begun,  suggesting  as  it  does  something  closed  up, 
away  from  air  and  sunlight,  continually  working  in  secret, 
engendering  forces  that  fascinated,  yet  inspired  me  with 
fear.  Undoubtedly  this  secretiveness  of  our  elders  was 
due  to  the  pernicious  dualism  of  their  orthodox  Chris 
tianity,  in  which  love  was  carnal  and  therefore  evil,  and  the 
flesh  not  the  gracious  soil  of  the  spirit,  but  something  to  be 
deplored  and  condemned,  exorcised  and  transformed  by  the 
miracle  of  grace.  Now  love  had  become  a  terrible  power 
(gripping  me)  whose  enchantment  drove  men  and  women 
from  home  and  friends  and  kindred  to  the  uttermost  parts 
of  the  earth.  .  .  . 

It  was  long  before  I  got  to  sleep  that  night  after  my  talk 
with  Alec  Pound.  I  alternated  between  the  horror  and  the 
romance  of  the  story  I  had  heard,  supplying  for  myself  the 
details  he  had  omitted :  I  beheld  the  signals  from  the  win- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  35 

dows,  the  clandestine  meetings,  the  sudden  and  desperate 
flight.  And  to  think  that  all  this  could  have  happened  in 
our  city  not  five  blocks  from  where  I  lay  I 

My  consternation  and  horror  were  concentrated  on  the 
man,  —  and  yet  I  recall  a  curious  bifurcation.  Instead  of 
experiencing  that  automatic  righteous  indignation  which 
my  father  and  mother  had  felt,  which  had  animated  old  Mr. 
Jules  Hollister  when  he  had  sternly  forbidden  his  daughter's 
name  to  be  mentioned  in  his  presence,  which  had  made 
these  people  outcasts,  there  welled  up  within  me  an  intense 
sympathy  and  pity.  By  an  instinctive  process  somehow 
linked  with  other  experiences,  I  seemed  to  be  able  to  enter 
into  the  feelings  of  these  two  outcasts,  to  understand  the 
fearful  yet  fascinating  nature  of  the  impulse  that  had  led 
them  to  elude  the  vigilance  and  probity  of  a  world  with 
which  I  myself  was  at  odds.  I  pictured  them  in  a  remote 
land,  shunned  by  mankind.  Was  there  something  within 
me  that  might  eventually  draw  me  to  do  likewise?  The 
desire  in  me  to  which  my  father  had  referred,  which  would 
brook  no  opposition,  which  twisted  and  squirmed  until  it 
found  its  way  to  its  object  ?  I  recalled  the  words  of  Jarvis, 
the  carpenter,  that  if  I  ever  set  my  heart  on  another  man's 
wife,  God  help  him.  God  help  me  ! 

A  wicked  man !  I  had  never  beheld  the  handsome  and 
fascinating  Mr.  Jennings,  but  I  visualised  him  now;  dark, 
like  all  villains,  with  a  black  moustache  and  snapping  black 
eyes.  He  carried  a  cane.  I  always  associated  canes  with 
villains.  Whereupon  I  arose,  groped  for  the  matches,  lighted 
the  gas,  and  gazing  at  myself  in  the  mirror  was  a  little  re 
assured  to  find  nothing  sinister  in  my  countenance.  .  .  . 


Next  to  my  father's  faith  in  a  Moral  Governor  of  the 
Universe  was  his  belief  in  the  Tariff  and  the  Republican 
Party.  And  this  belief,  among  others,  he  handed  on  to  me. 
On  the  cinder  playground  of  the  Academy  we  Republicans 


36  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

used  to  wage,  during  campaigns,  pitched  battles  for  the  Tariff. 
It  did  not  take  a  great  deal  of  courage  to  be  a  Republican 
in  our  city,  and  I  was  brought  up  to  believe  that  Democrats 
were  irrational,  inferior,  and  —  with  certain  exceptions  like 
the  Hollisters  —  dirty  beings.  There  was  only  one  degree 
lower,  and  that  was  to  be  a  mugwump.  It  was  no  wonder 
that  the  Hollisters  were  Democrats,  for  they  had  a  queer 
streak  in  them ;  owing,  no  doubt,  to  the  fact  that  old  Mr.  Jules 
Hollister's  mother  had  been  a  Frenchwoman.  He  looked  like 
a  Frenchman,  by  the  way,  and  always  wore  a  skullcap. 

I  remember  one  autumn  afternoon  having  a  violent 
quarrel  with  Gene  Hollister  that  bade  fair  to  end  in  blows, 
when  he  suddenly  demanded  :  — 

"I'll  bet  you  anything  you  don't  know  why  you're  a 
Republican." 

"It's  because  I'm  for  the  Tariff,"  I  replied  triumphantly. 

But  his  next  question  floored  me.  What,  for  example, 
was  the  Tariff  ?  I  tried  to  bluster  it  out,  but  with  no  success. 

"  Do  you  know  ? "  I  cried  finally,  with  sudden  inspiration. 

It  turned  out  that  he  did  not. 

"Aren't  we  darned  idiots,"  he  asked,  "to  get  fighting  over 
something  we  don't  know  anything  about?" 

That  was  Gene's  French  blood,  of  course.  But  his  ques 
tion  rankled.  And  how  was  I  to  know  that  he  would  have 
got  as  little  satisfaction  if  he  had  hurled  it  into  the  marching 
ranks  of  those  imposing  torch-light  processions  which  some 
times  passed  our  house  at  night,  with  drums  beating  and 
fifes  screaming  and  torches  waving,  —  thousands  of  citizens 
who  were  for  the  Tariff  for  the  same  reason  as  I :  to  wit, 
because  they  were  Republicans. 

Yet  my  father  lived  and  died  in  the  firm  belief  that  the 
United  States  of  America  was  a  democracy ! 

Resolved  not  to  be  caught  a  second  time  in  such  a  humiliat 
ing  position  by  a  Democrat,  I  asked  my  father  that  night 
what  the  Tariff  was.  But  I  was  too  young  to  understand  it, 
he  said.  I  was  to  take  his  word  for  it  that  the  country  would 
go  to  the  dogs  if  the  Democrats  got  in  and  the  Tariff  were 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  37 

taken  away.  Here,  in  a  nutshell,  though  neither  he  nor  I 
realized  it,  was  the  political  instruction  of  the  marching 
hordes.  Theirs  not  to  reason  why.  I  was  too  young,  they 
too  ignorant.  Such  is  the  method  of  Authority ! 

The  steel-mills  of  Mr.  Durrett  and  Mr.  Hambleton,  he 
continued,  would  be  forced  to  shut  down,  and  thousands  of 
workmen  would  starve.  This  was  just  a  sample  of  what 
would  happen.  Prosperity  would  cease,  he  declared.  That 
word,  Prosperity,  made  a  deep  impression  on  me,  and  I 
recall  the  certain  reverential  emphasis  he  laid  on  it.  And 
while  my  solicitude  for  the  workmen  was  not  so  great  as  his 
and  Mr.  Durrett's,  I  was  concerned  as  to  what  would  happen 
to  us  if  those  twin  gods,  the  Tariff  and  Prosperity,  should 
take  their  departure  from  the  land.  Knowing  my  love  for 
the  good  things  of  the  table,  my  father  intimated,  with  a 
rare  humour  I  failed  to  appreciate,  that  we  should  have  to 
live  henceforth  in  spartan  simplicity.  After  that,  like  the 
intelligent  workman,  I  was  firmer  than  ever  for  the  Tariff. 
Such  was  the  idealistic  plane  on  which  —  and  from  a  good 
man  —  I  received  my  first  political  instruction !  And  for  a 
long  time  I  connected  the  dominance  of  the  Republican 
Party  with  the  continuation  of  manna  and  quails,  in  other 
words,  with  nothing  that  had  to  do  with  the  spiritual  wel 
fare  of  any  citizen,  but  with  clothing  and  food  and  material 
comforts.  My  education  was  progressing.  .  .  . 

Though  my  father  revered  Plato  and  Aristotle,  he  did  not, 
apparently,  take  very  seriously  the  contention  that  that 
government  alone  is  good  "  which  seeks  to  attain  the  perma 
nent  interests  of  the  governed  by  evolving  the  character  of 
its  citizens."  To  put  the  matter  brutally,  politics,  despite 
the  lofty  sentiments  on  the  transparencies  in  torchlight 
processions,  had  only  to  do  with  the  belly,  not  the  soul. 


Politics  and  government,  one  perceives,  had  nothing  to 
do   with   religion,    nor   education  with   any   of   these.     A 


38  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

secularized  and  disjointed  world!  Our  leading  citizens, 
learned  in  the  classics  though  some  of  them  might  be,  paid 
no  heed  to  the  dictum  of  the  Greek  idealist,  who  was  more 
practical  than  they  would  have  supposed.  "The  man  who 
does  not  carry  his  city  within  his  heart  is  a  spiritual  starve 
ling." 

One  evening,  a  year  or  two  after  that  tariff  campaign,  I 
was  pretending  to  study  my  lessons  under  the  student  lamp 
in  the  sitting-room  while  my  mother  sewed  and  my  father 
wrote  at  his  desk,  when  there  was  a  ring  at  the  door-bell. 
I  welcomed  any  interruption,  even  though  the  visitor  proved 
to  be  only  the  druggist's  boy ;  and  there  was  always  the 
possibility  of  a  telegram  announcing,  for  instance,  the  death 
of  a  relative.  Such  had  once  been  the  case  when  my  Uncle 
Avery  Paret  had  died  in  New  York,  and  I  was  taken  out  of 
school  for  a  blissful  four  days  for  the  funeral. 

I  went  tiptoeing  into  the  hall  and  peeped  over  the  banisters 
while  Ella  opened  the  door.  I  heard  a  voice  which  I  recog 
nized  as  that  of  Perry  Blackwood's  father  asking  for  Mr. 
Paret;  and  then  to  my  astonishment,  I  saw  filing  after 
him  into  the  parlour  some  ten  or  twelve  persons.  With  the 
exception  of  Mr.  Ogilvy,  who  belonged  to  one  of  our  old 
families,  and  Mr.  Watling,  a  lawyer  who  had  married  the 
youngest  of  Gene  Hollister's  aunts,  the  visitors  entered 
stealthily,  after  the  manner  of  burglars ;  some  of  these  were 
heavy-jowled,  and  all  had  an  air  of  mystery  that  raised  my 
curiosity  and  excitement  to  the  highest  pitch.  I  caught  hold 
of  Ella  as  she  came  up  the  stairs,  but  she  tore  herself  free, 
and  announced  to  my  father  that  Mr.  Josiah  Blackwood  and 
other  gentlemen  had  asked  to  see  him.  My  father  seemed 
puzzled  as  he  went  downstairs.  ...  A  long  interval  elapsed, 
during  which  I  did  not  make  even  a  pretence  of  looking  at  my 
arithmetic.  At  times  the  low  hum  of  voices  rose  to  what  was 
almost  an  uproar,  and  on  occasions  I  distinguished  a  marked 
Irish  brogue. 

"  I  wonder  what  they  want  ?  "  said  my  mother,  nervously. 

At  last  we  heard  the  front  door  shut  behind  them,  and  my 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  39 

father  came  upstairs,  his  usually  serene  face  wearing  a  dis 
turbed  expression. 

"  Who  in  the  world  was  it,  Mr.  Paret  ?  "  asked  my  mother. 

My  father  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair.  He  was  clearly 
making  an  effort  for  self-control. 

"Blackwood  and  Ogilvy  and  Watling  and  some  city 
politicians,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Politicians!"  she  repeated.  "What  did  they  want? 
That  is,  if  it's  anything  you  can  tell  me,"  she  added  apologet 
ically. 

"They  wished  me  to  be  the  Republican  candidate  for  the 
mayor  of  this  city." 

This  tremendous  news  took  me  off  my  feet.    My  father 


mayor 


"Of  course  you  didn't  consider  it,  Mr.  Paret,"  my  mother 
was  saying. 

"  Consider  it ! "  he  echoed  reprovingly.  "  I  can't  imagine 
what  Ogilvy  and  Watling  and  Josiah  Blackwood  were  think 
ing  of!  They  are  out  of  their  heads.  I  as  much  as  told 
them  so." 

This  was  more  than  I  could  bear,  for  I  had  already  pictured 
myself  telling  the  news  to  envious  schoolmates. 

"Oh,  father,  why  didn't  you  take  it?"  I  cried. 

By  this  time,  when  he  turned  to  me,  he  had  regained  his 
usual  expression. 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  Hugh,"  he 
said.  "Accept  a  political  office!  That  sort  of  thing  is 
left  to  politicians." 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  warned  me  that  a  continuation 
of  the  conversation  would  be  unwise,  and  my  mother  also 
understood  that  the  discussion  was  closed.  He  went  back 
to  his  desk,  and  began  writing  again  as  though  nothing  had 
happened. 

As  for  me,  I  was  left  in  a  palpitating  state  of  excitement 
which  my  father's  self-control  or  sang-froid  only  served  to 
irritate  and  enhance,  and  my  head  was  fairly  spinning  as, 
covertly,  I  watched  his  pen  steadily  covering  the  paper. 


40  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

How  could  he  —  how  could  any  man  of  flesh  and  blood  sit 
down  calmly  after  having  been  offered  the  highest  honour 
in  the  gift  of  his  community !  And  he  had  spurned  it  as  if 
Mr.  Blackwood  and  the  others  had  gratuitously  insulted 
him  !  And  how  was  it,  if  my  father  so  revered  the  Republican 
Party  that  he  would  not  suffer  it  to  be  mentioned  slightingly 
in  his  presence,  that  he  had  refused  contemptuously  to  be 
its  mayor?  .  .  . 

The  next  day  at  school,  however,  I  managed  to  let  it  be 
known  that  the  offer  had  been  made  and  declined.  After  all, 
this  seemed  to  make  my  father  a  bigger  man  than  if  he  had 
accepted  it.  Naturally  I  was  asked  why  he  had  declined  it. 

"He  wouldn't  take  it,"  I  replied  scornfully.  "Office- 
holding  should  be  left  to  politicians." 

Ralph  Hambleton,  with  his  precocious  and  cynical  knowl 
edge  of  the  world,  minimized  my  triumph  by  declaring  that 
he  would  rather  be  his  grandfather,  Nathaniel  Durrett,  than 
the  mayor  of  the  biggest  city  in  the  country.  Politicians, 
he  said,  were  bloodsuckers  and  thieves,  and  the  only  reason 
for  holding  office  was  that  it  enabled  one  to  steal  the  tax 
payers'  money.  .  .  . 

As  I  have  intimated,  my  vision  of  a  future  literary  career 
waxed  and  waned,  but  a  belief  that  I  was  going  to  be  Some 
body  rarely  deserted  me.  If  not  a  literary  lion,  what  was 
that  Somebody  to  be?  Such  an  environment  as  mine  was 
wofully  lacking  in  heroic  figures  to  satisfy  the  romantic 
soul.  In  view  of  the  experience  I  have  just  related,  it  is 
not  surprising  that  the  notion  of  becoming  a  statesman  did 
not  appeal  to  me;  nor  is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  despite  the 
somewhat  exaggerated  respect  and  awe  in  which  Ralph's 
grandfather  was  held  by  my  father  and  other  influential 
persons,  that  I  failed  to  be  stirred  by  the  elements  of  great 
ness  in  the  grim  personality  of  our  first  citizen,  the  iron 
master.  For  he  possessed  such  elements.  He  lived  alone 
in  Ingram  Street  in  an  uncompromising  mansion  I  always 
associated  with  the  Sabbath,  not  only  because  I  used  to  be 
taken  there  on  decorous  Sunday  visits  by  my  father,  but  be- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  41 

cause  it  was  the  very  quintessence  of  Presbyterianism.  The 
moment  I  entered  its  "portals"  —  as  Mr.  Hawthorne  appro 
priately  would  have  called  them — my  spirit  was  overwhelmed 
and  suffocated  by  its  formality  and  orderliness.  Within  its 
stern  walls  Nathaniel  Durrett  had  made  a  model  universe 
of  his  own,  such  as  the  Deity  of  the  Westminster  Confession 
had  no  doubt  meant  his  greater  one  to  be  if  man  had  not 
rebelled  and  foiled  him.  ...  It  was  a  world  from  which 
I  was  determined  to  escape  at  any  cost. 

My  father  and  I  were  always  ushered  into  the  gloomy 
library,  with  its  high  ceiling,  with  its  long  windows  that 
reached  almost  to  the  rococo  cornice,  with  its  cold  marble 
mantelpiece  that  reminded  me  of  a  tombstone,  with  its  in 
terminable  book  shelves  filled  with  yellow  bindings.  On 
the  centre  table,  in  addition  to  a  ponderous  Bible,  was  one 
of  those  old-fashioned  carafes  of  red  glass  tipped  with  blue 
surmounted  by  a  tumbler  of  blue  tipped  with  red.  Behind 
this  table  Mr.  Durrett  sat  reading  a  volume  of  sermons, 
a  really  handsome  old  man  in  his  black  tie  and  pleated 
shirt;  tall  and  spare,  straight  as  a  ramrod,  with  a  finely 
moulded  head  and  straight  nose  and  sinewy  hands  the  colour 
of  mulberry  stain.  He  called  my  father  by  his  first  name, 
an  immense  compliment,  considering  how  few  dared  to  do  so. 

"Well,  Matthew,"  the  old  man  would  remark,  after  they 
had  discussed  Dr.  Pound's  latest  flight  on  the  nature  of  the 
Trinity  or  the  depravity  of  man,  or  horticulture,  or  the 
Republican  Party,  "do  you  have  any  better  news  of  Hugh 
at  school?" 

"I  regret  to  say,  Mr.  Durrett,"  my  father  would  reply, 
"that  he  does  not  yet  seem  to  be  aroused  to  a  sense  of  his 
opportunities." 

Whereupon  Mr.  Durrett  would  gimble  me  with  a  blue 
eye  that  lurked  beneath  grizzled  brows,  quite  as  painful 
a  proceeding  as  if  he  used  an  iron  tool.  I  almost  pity  my 
self  when  I  think  of  what  a  forlorn  stranger  I  was  in  their 
company.  They  two,  indeed,  were  of  one  kind,  and  I  of 
another  sort  who  could  never  understand  them,  —  nor 


42  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

they  me.  To  what  depths  of  despair  they  reduced  me  they 
never  knew,  and  yet  they  were  doing  it  all  for  my  good! 
They  only  managed  to  convince  me  that  my  love  of  folly 
was  ineradicable,  and  that  I  was  on  my  way  head  first  for 
perdition.  I  always  looked,  during  these  excruciating  and 
personal  moments,  at  the  coloured  glass  bottle. 

"  It  grieves  me  to  hear  it,  Hugh,"  Mr.  Durrett  invariably 
declared.  "You'll  never  come  to  any  good  without  study. 
Now  when  I  was  your  age  ..." 

I  knew  his  history  by  heart,  a  common  one  in  this  country, 
although  he  made  an  honourable  name  instead  of  a  dis 
honourable  one.  And  when  I  contrast  him  with  those  of 
his  successors  whom  I  was  to  know  later  .  .  . !  But  I  shall 
not  anticipate.  American  genius  had  not  then  evolved 
the  false  entry  method  of  overcapitalization.  A  thrilling 
history,  Mr.  Durrett's,  could  I  but  have  entered  into  it.  I 
did  not  reflect  then  that  this  stern  old  man  must  have 
throbbed  once;  nay,  fire  and  energy  still  remained  in  his 
bowels,  else  he  could  not  have  continued  to  dominate  a  city. 
Nor  did  it  occur  to  me  that  the  great  steel-works  that 
lighted  the  southern  sky  were  the  result  of  a  passion,  of 
dreams  similar  to  those  possessing  me,  but  which  I  could 
not  express.  He  had  founded  a  family  whose  position 
was  virtually  hereditary,  gained  riches  which  for  those  days 
were  great,  compelled  men  to  speak  his  name  with  a  certain 
awe.  But  of  what  use  were  such  riches  as  his  when  his 
religion  and  morality  compelled  him  to  banish  from  him  all 
the  joys  in  the  power  of  riches  to  bring  ? 

No,  I  didn't  want  to  be  an  iron-master.  But  it  may  have 
been  about  this  time  that  I  began  to  be  impressed  with  the 
power  of  wealth,  the  adulation  and  reverence  it  commanded, 
the  importance  in  which  it  clothed  all  who  shared  in  it.  .  .  . 


The  private  school  I  attended  in  the  company  of  other  boys 
with  whom  I  was  brought  up  was  called  Densmore  Academy, 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  43 

a  large,  square  building  of  a  then  hideous  modernity,  built 
of  smooth,  orange-red  bricks  with  threads  of  black  mortar 
between  them.  One  reads  of  happy  school  days,  yet  I 
fail  to  recall  any  really  happy  hours  spent  there,  even  in 
the  yard,  which  was  covered  with  black  cinders  that  cut  you 
when  you  fell.  I  think  of  it  as  a  penitentiary,  and  the 
memory  of  the  barred  lower  windows  gives  substance  to 
this  impression. 

I  suppose  I  learned  something  during  the  seven  years  of 
my  incarceration.  All  of  value,  had  its  teachers  known  any 
thing  of  youthful  psychology,  of  natural  bent,  could  have 
been  put  into  me  in  three.  At  least  four  criminally  wasted 
years,  to  say  nothing  of  the  benumbing  and  desiccating 
effect  of  that  old  system  of  education !  Chalk  and  chalk- 
dust  !  The  Mediterranean  a  tinted  portion  of  the  map,  Italy 
a  man's  boot  which  I  drew  painfully,  with  many  yawns; 
history  no  glorious  epic  revealing  as  it  unrolls  the  Meaning 
of  Things,  no  revelation  of  that  wondrous  distillation  of  the 
Spirit  of  man,  but  an  endless  marching  and  counter-marching 
up  and  down  the  map,  weary  columns  of  figures  to  be  learned 
by  rote  instantly  to  be  forgotten  again.  "  On  June  the  7th 
General  So-and-so  proceeded  with  his  whole  army — " 
where?  What  does  it  matter?  One  little  chapter  of 
Carlyle,  illuminated  by  a  teacher  of  understanding,  were 
.  worth  a  million  such  text-books.  Alas,  for  the  hatred  of 
Virgil!  "Paret"  (a  shiver),  "begin  at  the  one  hundred  and 
thirtieth  line  and  translate ! "  I  can  hear  myself  droning  out 
in  detestable  English  a  meaningless  portion  of  that  endless 
journey  of  the  pious  ^Eneas;  can  see  Gene  Hollister,  with 
heart-rending  glances  of  despair,  stumbling  through  Cornelius 
Nepos  in  an  unventilated  room  with  chalk-rubbed  black 
boards  and  heavy  odours  of  ink  and  stale  lunch.  And  I 
graduated  from  Densmore  Academy,  the  best  school  in  our 
city,  in  the  80's,  without  having  been  taught  even  the  rudi 
ments  of  citizenship. 

Knowledge  was  presented  to  us  as  a  corpse,  which  bit  by 
bit  we  painfully  dissected.    We  never  glimpsed  the  living, 


44  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

growing  thing,  never  experienced  the  Spirit,  the  same  spirit 
that  was  able  magically  to  waft  me  from  a  wintry  Lyme 
Street  to  the  South  Seas,  the  energizing,  electrifying  Spirit 
of  true  achievement,  of  life,  of  God  himself.  Little  by  little 
its  flames  were  smothered  until  in  manhood  there  seemed  no 
spark  of  it  left  alive.  Many  years  were  to  pass  ere  it  was 
to  revive  again,  as  by  a  miracle.  I  travelled.  Awakening 
at  dawn,  I  saw,  framed  in  a  port-hole,  rose-red  Seriphos  set 
in  a  living  blue  that  paled  the  sapphire ;  the  seas  Ulysses  had 
sailed,  and  the  company  of  the  Argonauts.  My  soul  was 
steeped  in  unimagined  colour,  and  in  the  memory  of  one 
rapturous  instant  is  gathered  what  I  was  soon  to  see  of 
Greece,  is  focussed  the  meaning  of  history,  poetry  and  art. 
I  was  to  stand  one  evening  in  spring  on  the  mound  where 
heroes  sleep  and  gaze  upon  the  plain  of  Marathon  between 
darkening  mountains  and  the  blue  thread  of  the  strait : 
peaceful  now,  flushed  with  pink  and  white  blossoms  of  fruit 
and  almond  trees ;  to  sit  on  the  cliff-throne  whence  a  Persian 
King  had  looked  down  upon  a  Salamis  fought  and  lost.  .  .  . 
In  that  port-hole  glimpse  a  Themistocles  was  revealed,  a 
Socrates,  a  Homer  and  a  Phidias,  an  ^Eschylus,  and  a  Per 
icles;  yes,  and  a  John  brooding  Revelations  on  his  sea-girt 
rock  as  twilight  falls  over  the  waters.  .  .  . 

I  saw  the  Roman  Empire,  that  Scarlet  Woman  whose 
sands  were  dyed  crimson  with  blood  to  appease  her  harlotry, 
whose  ships  were  laden  with  treasures  from  the  immutable 
East,  grain  from  the  valley  of  the  Nile,  spices  from  Arabia, 
precious  purple  stuffs  from  Tyre,  tribute  and  spoil,  slaves  and 
jewels  from  conquered  nations  she  absorbed ;  and  yet  whose 
very  emperors  were  the  unconscious  instruments  of  a  Progress 
they  wot  not  of,  preserved  to  the  West  by  Marathon  and 
Salamis.  With  Csesar's  legions  its  message  went  forth  across 
Hispania  to  the  cliffs  of  the  wild  western  ocean,  through 
Hercynian  forests  to  tribes  that  dwelt  where  great  rivers 
roll  up  their  bars  by  misty,  northern  seas,  and  even  to 
Celtic  fastnesses  beyond  the  Wall.  .  .  . 


IV 


IN  and  out  of  my  early  memories  like  a  dancing  ray  of 
sunlight  flits  the  spirit  of  Nancy.  I  was  always  fond  of  her, 
but  in  extreme  youth  I  accepted  her  incense  with  masculine 
complacency  and  took  her  allegiance  for  granted,  never 
seeking  to  fathom  the  nature  of  the  spell  I  exercised  over 
her.  Naturally  other  children  teased  me  about  her;  but 
what  was  worse,  with  that  charming  lack  of  self-conscious 
ness  and  consideration  for  what  in  after  life  are  called  the 
finer  feelings,  •  they  teased  her  about  me  before  me,  my 
presence  deterring  them  not  at  all.  I  can  see  them  hop 
ping  around  her  in  the  Peters  yard  crying  out :  — 

"Nancy's  in  love  with  Hugh!  Nancy's  in  love  with 
Hugh!" 

A  sufficiently  thrilling  pastime,  this,  for  Nancy  could  take 
care  of  herself.  I  was  a  bungler  beside  her  when  it  came  to 
retaliation,  and  not  the  least  of  her  attractions  for  me  was 
her  capacity  for  anger :  fury  would  be  a  better  term.  She 
would  fly  at  them  —  even  as  she  flew  at  the  head-hunters 
when  the  Petrel  was  menaced;  and  she  could  run  like  a 
deer.  Woe  to  the  unfortunate  victim  she  overtook !  Mas 
culine  strength,  exercised  apologetically,  availed  but  little, 
and  I  have  seen  Russell  Peters  and  Gene  Hollister  retire 
from  such  encounters  humiliated  and  weeping.  She  never 
caught  Ralph ;  his  methods  of  torture  were  more  intelligent 
and  subtle  than  Gene's  and  Russell's,  but  she  was  his  equal 
when  it  came  to  a  question  of  tongues. 

"I  know  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Ralph  Hambleton," 
she  would  say.  "You're  jealous."  An  accusation  that 
invariably  put  him  on  the  defensive.  "You  think  all  the 
girls  are  in  love  with  you,  don't  you?" 

45 


46  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

These  scenes  I  found  somewhat  embarrassing.  Not  so 
Nancy.  After  discomfiting  her  tormenters,  or  wounding 
and  scattering  them,  she  would  return  to  my  side.  ...  In 
spite  of  her  frankly  expressed  preference  for  me  she  had  an 
elusiveness  that  made  a  continual  appeal  to  my  imagination. 
She  was  never  obvious  or  commonplace,  and  long  before  I 
began  to  experience  the  discomforts  and  sufferings  of  youthful 
love  I  was  fascinated  by  a  nature  eloquent  with  contradic 
tions  and  inconsistencies.  She  was  a  tomboy,  yet  her  own 
sex  was  enhanced  rather  than  overwhelmed  by  contact  with 
the  other :  and  no  matter  how  many  trees  she  climbed  she 
never  seemed  to  lose  her  daintiness.  It  was  innate. 

She  could,  at  times,  be  surprisingly  demure.  These  im 
pressions  of  her  daintiness  and  demureness  are  particularly 
vivid  in  a  picture  my  memory  has  retained  of  our  walking 
together,  unattended,  to  Susan  Blackwood's  birthday  party. 
She  must  have  been  about  twelve  years  old.  It  was  the  first 
time  I  had  escorted  her  or  any  other  girl  to  a  party;  Mrs. 
Willett  had  smiled  over  the  proceeding,  but  Nancy  and  I 
took  it  most  seriously,  as  symbolic  of  things  to  come.  I  can 
see  Powell  Street,  where  Nancy  lived,  at  four  o'clock  on  a 
mild  and  cloudy  December  afternoon,  the  decorous,  retiring 
houses,  Nancy  on  one  side  of  the  pavement  by  the  iron 
fences  and  I  on  the  other  by  the  tree  boxes.  I  can't  remem 
ber  her  dress,  only  the  exquisite  sense  of  her  slimness  and 
daintiness  comes  back  to  me,  of  her  dark  hair  in  a  long  braid 
tied  with  a  red  ribbon,  of  her  slender  legs  clad  in  black 
stockings  of  shining  silk.  We  felt  the  occasion  to  be  some 
how  too  significant,  too  eloquent  for  words.  .  .  . 

In  silence  we  climbed  the  flight  of  stone  steps  that  led  up 
to  the  Blackwood  mansion,  when  suddenly  the  door  was 
opened,  letting  out  sounds  of  music  and  revelry.  Mr. 
Blackwood's  coloured  butler,  Ned,  beamed  at  us  hospitably, 
inviting  us  to  enter  the  brightness  within.  The  shades  were 
drawn,  the  carpets  were  covered  with  festal  canvas,  the 
folding  doors  between  the  square  rooms  were  flung  back, 
the  prisms  of  the  big  chandeliers  flung  their  light  over  ani- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  47 

mated  groups  of  matrons  and  children.  Mrs.  Watling,  the 
mother  of  the  Watling  twins  —  too  young  to  be  present  — 
was  directing  with  vivacity  the  game  of  "King  William 
was  King  James's  son,"  and  Mrs.  McAlery  was  playing 

^t-**4       »"Vt  O  T»  f\ 


the  piano 

"  Now  choose  you  East,  now  choose  you  West, 
Now  choose  the  one  you  love  the  best  1 " 

Tom  Peters,  in  a  velvet  suit  and  consequently  very  miser 
able,  refused  to  embrace  Ethel  Hollister ;  while  the  scornful 
Julia  lurked  in  a  corner :  nothing  would  induce  her  to  enter 
such  a  foolish  game.  I  experienced  a  novel  discomfiture 
when  Ralph  kissed  Nancy.  .  .  .  Afterwards  came  the  feast, 
from  which  Ham  Durrett,  in  a  pink  paper  cap  with  streamers, 
was  at  length  forcibly  removed  by  his  mother.  Thus  early 
did  he  betray  his  love  for  the  flesh  pots.  .  .  . 


It  was  not  until  I  was  sixteen  that  a  player  came  and 
touched  the  keys  of  my  soul,  and  it  awoke,  bewildered,  at 
these  first  tender  notes.  The  music  quickened,  tripping 
in  ecstasy,  to  change  by  subtle  phrases  into  themes  of  ex 
quisite  suffering  hitherto  unexperienced.  I  knew  that  I 
loved  Nancy. 

With  the  advent  of  longer  dresses  that  reached  to  her  shoe 
tops  a  change  had  come  over  her.  The  tomboy,  the  willing 
camp-follower  who  loved  me  and  was  unashamed,  were 
gone  forever,  and  a  mysterious,  transfigured  being,  neither 
girl  nor  woman,  had  magically  been  evolved.  Could  it 
be  possible  that  she  loved  me  still?  My  complacency  had 
vanished ;  suddenly  I  had  become  the  aggressor,  if  only  I 
had  known  how  to  "aggress";  but  in  her  presence  I  was 
seized  by  an  accursed  shyness  that  paralyzed  my  tongue, 
and  the  things  I  had  planned  to  say  were  left  unuttered. 
It  was  something  —  though  I  did  not  realize  it  —  to  be  able 
to  feel  like  that. 


48  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

The  time  came  when  I  could  no  longer  keep  this  thing  to 
myself.  The  need  of  an  outlet,  of  a  confidant,  became  im 
perative,  and  I  sought  out  Tom  Peters.  It  was  in  February ; 
I  remember  because  I  had  ventured  —  with  incredible  dar 
ing  —  to  send  Nancy  an  elaborate,  rosy  Valentine ;  written 
on  the  back  of  it  in  a  handwriting  all  too  thinly  disguised 
was  the  following  verse,  the  triumphant  result  of  much 
hard  thinking  in  school  hours :  — 

Should  you  of  this  the  sender  guess 
Without  another  sign, 
Would  you  repent,  and  rest  content 
To  be  his  Valentine? 

I  grew  hot  and  cold  by  turns  when  I  thought  of  its  pos 
sible  effects  on  my  chances. 

One  of  those  useless,  slushy  afternoons,  I  took  Tom  for 
a  walk  that  led  us,  as  dusk  came  on,  past  Nancy's  house. 
Only  by  painful  degrees  did  I  succeed  in  overcoming  my 
bashfulness;  but  Tom,  when  at  last  I  had  blurted  out  the 
secret,  was  most  sympathetic,  although  the  ailment  from 
which  I  suffered  was  as  yet  outside  of  the  realm  of  his  ex 
perience.  I  have  used  the  word  "ailment"  advisedly,  since 
he  evidently  put  my  trouble  in  the  same  category  with 
diphtheria  or  scarlet  fever,  remarking  that  it  was  "darned 
hard  luck."  In  vain  I  sought  to  explain  that  I  did  not 
regard  it  as  such  in  the  least ;  there  was  suffering,  I  admitted,' 
but  a  degree  of  bliss  none  could  comprehend  who  had  not* 
felt  it.  He  refused  to  be  envious,  or  at  least  to  betray  envy ; 
yet  he  was  curious,  asking  many  questions,  and  I  had  reason 
to  think  before  we  parted  that  his  admiration  for  me  was 
increased.  Was  it  possible  that  he,  too,  didn't  love  Nancy  ? 
No,  it  was  funny,  but  he  didn't.  He  failed  to  see  much  in 
girls :  his  tone  remained  commiserating,  yet  he  began  to 
take  an  interest  in  the  progress  of  my  suit. 

For  a  time  I  had  no  progress  to  report.  Out  of  considera 
tion  for  those  members  of  our  weekly  dancing  class  whose 
parents  were  Episcopalians  the  meetings  were  discontinued 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  49 

during  Lent,  and  to  call  would  have  demanded  a  courage 
not  in  me ;  I  should  have  become  an  object  of  ridicule  among 
my  friends  and  I  would  have  died  rather  than  face  Nancy's 
mother  and  the  members  of  her  household.  I  set  about  mak 
ing  ingenious  plans  with  a  view  to  encounters  that  might 
appear  casual.  Nancy's  school  was  dismissed  at  two,  so 
was  mine.  By  walking  fast  I  could  reach  Salisbury  Street, 
near  St.  Mary's  Seminary  for  Young  Ladies,  in  time  to 
catch  her,  but  even  then  for  many  days  I  was  doomed  to 
disappointment.  She  was  either  in  company  with  other 
girls,  or  else  she  had  taken  another  route;  this  I  surmised 
led  past  Sophy  McAlery's  house,  and  I  enlisted  Tom  as  a 
confederate.  He  was  to  make  straight  for  the  McAlery's 
on  Elm  while  I  followed  Powell,  two  short  blocks  away,  and 
if  Nancy  went  to  Sophy's  and  left  there  alone  he  was  to  an 
nounce  the  fact  by  a  preconcerted  signal.  Through  long 
and  persistent  practice  he  had  acquired  a  whistle  shrill 
enough  to  wake  the  dead,  accomplished  by  placing  a  finger 
of  each  hand  between  his  teeth ;  —  a  gift  that  was  the  envy 
of  his  acquaintances,  and  the  subject  of  much  discussion  as 
to  whether  his  teeth  were  peculiar.  Tom  insisted  that  they 
were;  it  was  an  added  distinction. 

On  this  occasion  he  came  up  behind  Nancy  as  she  was 
leaving  Sophy's  gate  and  immediately  sounded  the  alarm. 
She  leaped  in  the  air,  dropped  her  school-books  and  whirled 
on  him. 

"  Tom  Peters !    How  dare  you  frighten  me  so  I "  she  cried. 

Tom  regarded  her  in  sudden  dismay. 

"I  —  I  didn't  mean  to,"  he  said.  " I  didn't  think  you 
were  so  near." 

"But  you  must  have  seen  me." 

"  I  wasn't  paying  much  attention,"  he  equivocated,  —  a 
remark  not  calculated  to  appease  her  anger. 

"Why  were  you  doing  it?" 

"  I  was  just  practising,"  said  Tom. 

"  Practising ! "  exclaimed  Nancy,  scornfully.  "  I  shouldn't 
think  you  needed  to  practise  that  any  more." 


50  •        A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Oh,  I've  done  it  louder,"  he  declared,  "Listen!" 

She  seized  his  hands,  snatching  them  away  from  his  lips. 
At  this  critical  moment  I  appeared  around  the  corner  con 
siderably  out  of  breath,  my  heart  beating  like  a  watchman's 
rattle.  I  tried  to  feign  nonchalance. 

"Hello,  Tom,"  I  said.  "Hello,  Nancy.  What's  the 
matter?" 

"It's  Tom  —  he  frightened  me  out  of  my  senses."  Drop 
ping  his  wrists,  she  gave  me  a  most  disconcerting  look; 
there  was  in  it  the  suspicion  of  a  smile.  "What  are  you 
doing  here,  Hugh?" 

"I  heard  Tom,"  I  explained. 

"I  should  think  you  might  have.    Where  were  you?" 

"Over  in  another  street,"  I  answered,  with  deliberate 
vagueness.  Nancy  had  suddenly  become  demure.  I  did 
not  dare  look  at  her,  but  I  had  a  most  uncomfortable  notion 
that  she  suspected  the  plot.  Meanwhile  we  had  begun  to 
walk  along,  all  three  of  us,  Tom,  obviously  ill  at  ease  and 
discomfited,  lagging  a  little  behind.  Just  before  we  reached 
the  corner  I  managed  to  kick  him.  His  departure  was  by 
no  means  graceful. 

"I've  got  to  go,"  he  announced  abruptly,  and  turned 
down  the  side  street.  We  watched  his  sturdy  figure  as  it 
receded. 

"Well,  of  all  queer  boys!"  said  Nancy,  and  we  walked  on 
again. 

"He's  my  best  friend,"  I  replied  warmly. 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  care  much  for  your  company,"  said 
Nancy. 

"Oh,  they  have  dinner  at  half  past  two,"  I  explained. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  of  missing  yours,  Hugh?"  she  asked 
wickedly. 

"I've  got  tune.  I'd  —  I'd  rather  be  with  you."  After 
making  which  audacious  remark  I  was  seized  by  a  spasm  of 
apprehension.  But  nothing  happened.  Nancy  remained 
demure.  She  didn't  remind  me  that  I  had  reflected  upon 
Tom. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  51 

"That's  nice  of  you,  Hugh." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  saying  it  because  it's  nice,"  I  faltered.  "  I'd 
rather  be  with  you  than  —  with  anybody." 

This  was  indeed  the  acme  of  daring.  I  couldn't  believe 
I  had  actually  said  it.  But  again  I  received  no  rebuke; 
instead  came  a  remark  that  set  me  palpitating,  that  I  treas 
ured  for  many  weeks  to  come. 

"I  got  a  very  nice  valentine,"  she  informed  me. 

"What  was  it  like?"  I  asked  thickly. 

"Oh,  beautiful!  All  pink  lace  and  —  and  Cupids,  and 
the  picture  of  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman  in  a  garden." 

"Was  that  all?" 

"  Oh,  no,  there  was  a  verse,  in  the  oddest  handwriting.  I 
wonder  who  sent  it?" 

"Perhaps  Ralph,"  I  hazarded  ecstatically. 

"Ralph  couldn't  write  poetry,"  she  replied  disdainfully. 
"Besides,  it  was  very  good  poetry." 

I  suggested  other  possible  authors  and  admirers.  She 
rejected  them  all.  We  reached  her  gate,  and  I  lingered.  As 
she  looked  down  at  me  from  the  stone  steps  her  eyes  shone 
with  a  soft  light  that  filled  me  with  radiance,  and  into  her 
voice  had  come  a  questioning,  shy  note  that  thrilled  the  more 
because  it  revealed  a  new  Nancy  of  whom  I  had  not  dreamed. 

"  Perhaps  I'll  meet  you  again — coming  from  school,"  I  said. 

"Perhaps,"  she  answered.  "You'll  be  late  to  dinner, 
Hugh,  if  you  don't  go.  ..." 

I  was  late,  and  unable  to  eat  much  dinner,  somewhat  to 
my  mother's  alarm.  Love  had  taken  away  my  appetite. 
.  .  .  After  dinner,  when  I  was  wandering  aimlessly  about 
the  yard,  Tom  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence. 

"Don't  ever  ask  me  to  do  that  again,"  he  said  gloomily. 


I  did  meet  Nancy  again  coming  from  school,  not  every 
day,  but  nearly  every  day.  At  first  we  pretended  that  there 
was  no  arrangement  in  this,  and  we  both  feigned  surprise 


52  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

when  we  encountered  one  another.  It  was  Nancy  who 
possessed  the  courage  that  I  lacked.  One  afternoon  she 
said:  — 

"  I  think  I'd  better  walk  with  the  girls  to-morrow,  Hugh." 

I  protested,  but  she  was  firm.  And  after  that  it  was  an 
understood  thing  that  on  certain  days  I  should  go  directly 
home,  feeling  like  an  exile.  Sophy  McAlery  had  begun  to 
complain :  and  I  gathered  that  Sophy  was  Nancy's  confi 
dante.  The  other  girls  had  begun  to  gossip.  It  was  Nancy 
who  conceived  the  brilliant  idea  —  the  more  delightful  be 
cause  she  said  nothing  about  it  to  me  —  of  making  use  of 
Sophy.  She  would  leave  school  with  Sophy,  and  I  waited 
on  the  corner  near  the  McAlery  house.  Poor  Sophy !  She 
was  always  of  those  who  piped  while  others  danced.  In 
those  days  she  had  two  straw-coloured  pigtails,  and  her  plain, 
faithful  face  is  before  me  as  I  write.  She  never  betrayed  to 
me  the  excitement  that  filled  her  at  being  the  accomplice 
of  our  romance. 

Gossip  raged,  of  course.  Far  from  being  disturbed,  we 
used  it,  so  to  speak,  as  a  handle  for  our  love-making,  which 
was  carried  on  in  an  inferential  rather  than  a  direct  fashion. 
Were  they  saying  that  we  were  lovers  ?  Delightful !  We 
laughed  at  one  another  in  the  sunshine.  ...  At  last  we 
achieved  the  great  adventure  of  a  clandestine  meeting  and 
went  for  a  walk  in  the  afternoon,  avoiding  the  houses  of  our 
friends.  I've  forgotten  which  of  us  had  the  boldness  to 
propose  it.  The  crocuses  and  tulips  had  broken  the  black 
mould,  the  flower  beds  in  the  front  yards  were  beginning 
to  blaze  with  scarlet  and  yellow,  the  lawns  had  turned  a 
living  green.  What  did  we  talk  about?  The  substance 
has  vanished,  only  the  flavour  remains. 

One  awoke  of  a  morning  to  the  twittering  of  birds,  to 
walk  to  school  amidst  delicate,  lace-like  shadows  of  great 
trees  acloud  with  old  gold :  the  buds  lay  curled  like  tiny 
feathers  on  the  pavements.  Suddenly  the  shade  was  dense, 
the  sunlight  white  and  glaring,  the  odour  of  lilacs  heavy  in 
the  air,  spring  in  all  its  fulness  had  come,  —  spring  and 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  53 

Nancy.  Just  so  subtly,  yet  with  the  same  seeming  sudden 
ness  had  budded  and  come  to  leaf  and  flower  a  perfect  under 
standing  which  nevertheless  remained  undefined.  This,  I 
had  no  doubt,  was  my  fault,  and  due  to  the  incomprehensi 
ble  shyness  her  presence  continued  to  inspire.  Although  we 
did  not  altogether  abandon  our  secret  trysts,  we  began  to 
meet  in  more  natural  ways;  there  were  garden  parties  and 
picnics  where  we  strayed  together  through  the  woods  and 
fields,  pausing  to  tear  off,  one  by  one,  the  petals  of 
a  daisy,  — "  She  loves  me,  she  loves  me  not."  I  never 
ventured  to  kiss  her;  I  always  thought  afterwards  I  might 
have  done  so,  she  had  seemed  so  willing,  her  eyes  had  shone 
so  expectantly  as  I  sat  beside  her  on  the  grass;  nor  can  I 
tell  why  I  desired  to  kiss  her  save  that  this  was  the  traditional 
thing  to  do  to  the  lady  one  loved.  To  be  sure,  the  very 
touch  of  her  hand  was  galvanic.  Paradoxically,  I  saw  the 
human  side  of  her,  the  yielding  gentleness  that  always  amazed 
me,  yet  I  never  overcame  my  awe  of  the  divine ;  she  was  a 
being  sacrosanct.  Whether  this  idealism  were  innate  or  the 
result  of  such  romances  as  I  had  read  I  cannot  say.  ...  I 
got,  indeed,  an  avowal  of  a  sort.  The  weekly  dancing 
classes  having  begun  again,  on  one  occasion  when  she  had 
waltzed  twice  with  Gene  Hollister  I  protested. 

"Don't  be  silly,  Hugh,"  she  whispered.  "Of  course  I 
like  you  better  than  anyone  else  —  you  ought  to  know  that." 

We  never  got  to  the  word  "  love,"  but  we  knew  the  feeling. 


One  cloud  alone  flung  «its  shadow  across  these  idyllic  days. 
Before  I  was  fully  aware  of  it  I  had  drawn  very  near  to  the 
first  great  junction-point  of  my  life,  my  graduation  from 
Densmore  Academy.  We  were  to  "change  cars,"  in  the 
language  of  Principal  Haime.  Well  enough  for  the  fortunate 
ones  who  were  to  continue  the  academic  journey,  which 
implied  a  postponement  of  the  serious  business  of  life ;  but 
month  after  month  of  the  last  term  had  passed  without  a 


54  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

hint  from  my  father  that  I  was  to  change  cars.  Again  and 
again  I  almost  succeeded  in  screwing  up  my  courage  to  the 
point  of  mentioning  college  to  him,  —  never  quite ;  his 
manner,  though  kind  and  calm,  somehow  strengthened  my 
suspicion  that  I  had  been  judged  and  found  wanting,  and 
doomed  to  "business":  galley  slavery,  I  deemed  it,  humdrum, 
prosaic,  degrading  1  When  I  thought  of  it  at  night  I  expe 
rienced  almost  a  frenzy  of  self-pity.  My  father  couldn't 
intend  to  do  that,  just  because  my  monthly  reports  hadn't 
always  been  what  he  thought  they  ought  to  be!  Gene 
Hollister's  were  no  better,  if  as  good,  and  he  was  going  to 
Princeton.  Was  I,  Hugh  Paret,  to  be  denied  the  distinction 
of  being  a  college  man,  the  delights  of  university  existence, 
cruelly  separated  and  set  apart  from  my  friends  whom  I 
loved !  held  up  to  the  world  and  especially  to  Nancy  Willett 
as  good  for  nothing  else!  The  thought  was  unbearable. 
Characteristically,  I  hoped  against  hope. 

I  have  mentioned  garden  parties.  One  of  our  annual 
institutions  was  Mrs.  Willett's  children's  party  in  May; 
for  the  Willett  house  had  a  garden  that  covered  almost  a 
quarter  of  a  block.  Mrs.  Willett  loved  children,  the  greatest 
regret  of  her  life  being  that  providence  had  denied  her  a  large 
family.  As  far  back  as  my  memory  goes  she  had  been  some 
thing  of  an  invalid ;  she  had  a  sweet,  sad  face,  and  delicate 
hands  so  thin  as  to  seem  almost  transparent ;  and  she  al 
ways  sat  in  a  chair  under  the  great  tree  on  the  lawn,  smiling 
at  us  as  we  soared  to  dizzy  heights  in  the  swing,  or  played 
croquet,  or  scurried  through  the  paths,  and  in  and  out  of 
the  latticed  summer-house  with  shrieks  of  laughter  and 
terror.  It  all  ended  with  a  feast  at  a  long  table  made  of 
sawhorses  and  boards  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and  when 
the  cake  was  cut  there  was  wild  excitement  as  to  who  would 
get  the  ring  and  who  the  thimble. 

We  were  more  decorous,  or  rather  more  awkward  now, 
and  the  party  began  with  a  formal  period  when  the  boys 
gathered  in  a  group  and  pretended  indifference  to  the  girls. 
The  girls  were  cleverer  at  it,  and  actually  achieved  the  im- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  55 

pression  that  they  were  indifferent.  We  kept  an  eye  on  them, 
uneasily,  while  we  talked.  To  be  in  Nancy's  presence  and 
not  alone  with  Nancy  was  agonizing,  and  I  wondered  at  a 
sang-froid  beyond  my  power  to  achieve,  accused  her  of  cold 
ness,  my  sufferings  being  the  greater  because  she  seemed 
more  beautiful,  daintier,  more  irreproachable  than  I  had  ever 
seen  her.  Even  at  that  early  age  she  gave  evidence  of  the 
social  gift,  and  it  was  due  to  her  efforts  that  we  forgot  our 
best  clothes  and  our  newly  born  self-consciousness.  When 
I  begged  her  to  slip  away  with  me  among  the  currant  bushes 
she  whispered :  — 

"I  can't,  Hugh.     I'm  the  hostess,  you  know." 

I  had  gone  there  in  a  flutter  of  anticipation,  but  nothing 
went  right  that  day.  There  was  dancing  in  the  big  rooms 
that  looked  out  on  the  garden ;  the  only  girl  with  whom  I 
cared  to  dance  was  Nancy,  and  she  was  busy  finding  partners 
for  the  backward  members  of  both  sexes;  though  she  was 
my  partner,  to  be  sure,  when  it  all  wound  up  with  a  Virginia 
reel  on  the  lawn.  Then,  at  supper,  to  cap  the  climax  of 
untoward  incidents,  an  animated  discussion  was  begun  as  to 
the  relative  merits  of  the  various  colleges,  the  girls,  too,  taking 
sides.  Mac  Willett,  Nancy's  cousin,  was  going  to  Yale, 
Gene  Hollister  to  Princeton,  the  Ewan  boys  to  our  State 
University,  while  Perry  Blackwood  and  Ralph  Hambleton 
and  Ham  Durrett  were  destined  for  Harvard ;  Tom  Peters, 
also,  though  he  was  not  to  graduate  from  the  Academy  for 
another  year.  I  might  have  known  that  Ralph  would  have 
suspected  my  misery.  He  sat  triumphantly  next  to  Nancy 
herself,  while  I  had  been  told  off  to  entertain  the  faithful 
Sophy.  Noticing  my  silence,  he  demanded  wickedly :  — 

"Where  are  you  going,  Hugh?" 

"Harvard,  I  think,"  I  answered  with  as  bold  a  front  as 
I  could  muster.  "I  haven't  talked  it  over  with  my  father 
yet."  It  was  intolerable  to  admit  that  I  of  them  all  was  to 
be  left  behind. 

Nancy  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  She  was  always  down 
right. 


56  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Oh,  Hugh,  doesn't  your  father  mean  to  put  you  in  busi 
ness?"  she  exclaimed. 

A  hot  flush  spread  over  my  face.  Even  to  her  I  had  not 
betrayed  my  apprehensions  on  this  painful  subject.  Per 
haps  it  was  because  of  this  very  reason,  knowing  me  as  she 
did,  that  she  had  divined  my  fate.  Could  my  father  have 
spoken  of  it  to  anyone? 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  I  said  angrily.  I  wondered  if  she 
knew  how  deeply  she  had  hurt  me.  The  others  laughed. 
The  colour  rose  in  Nancy's  cheeks,  and  she  gave  me  an 
appealing,  almost  tearful  look,  but  my  heart  had  hardened. 
As  soon  as  supper  was  over  I  left  the  table  to  wander, 
nursing  my  wrongs,  in  a  far  corner  of  the  garden, 
gay  shouts  and  laughter  still  echoing  in  my  ears.  I  was 
negligible,  even  my  pathetic  subterfuge  had  been  detected 
and  cruelly  ridiculed  by  these  friends  whom  I  had  always 
loved  and  sought  out,  and  who  now  were  so  absorbed  in  their 
own  prospects  and  happiness  that  they  cared  nothing  for 
mine.  And  Nancy !  I  had  been  betrayed  by  Nancy !  .  .  . 
Twilight  was  coming  on.  I  remember  glancing  down  miser 
ably  at  the  new  blue  suit  I  had  put  on  so  hopefully  for  the 
first  time  that  afternoon. 

Separating  the  garden  from  the  street  was  a  high,  smooth 
board  fence  with  a  little  gate  in  it,  and  I  had  my  hand  on 
the  latch  when  I  heard  the  sound  of  hurrying  steps  on  the 
gravel  path  and  a  familiar  voice  calling  my  name. 

"Hugh!    Hugh!" 

I  turned.     Nancy  stood  before  me. 

"Hugh,  you're  not  going!" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"Why?" 

"If  you  don't  know,  there's  no  use  telling  you." 

"Just  because  I  said  your  father  intended  to  put  you  in 
business !  Oh,  Hugh,  why  are  you  so  foolish  and  so  proud  ? 
Do  you  suppose  that  anyone  —  that  I  —  think  any  the 
worse  of  you?" 

Yes,  she  had  read  me,  she  alone  had  entered  into  the  source 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  57 

of  that  prevarication,  the  complex  feelings  from  which  it 
sprang.  But  at  that  moment  I  could  not  forgive  her  for 
humiliating  me.  I  hugged  my  grievance. 

"  It  was  true,  what  I  said,"  I  declared  hotly.  "  My  father 
has  not  spoken.  It  is  true  that  I'm  going  to  college,  because 
I'll  make  it  true.  I  may  not  go  this  year." 

She  stood  staring  in  sheer  surprise  at  sight  of  my  sudden, 
quivering  passion.  I  think  the  very  intensity  of  it  frightened 
her.  And  then,  without  more  ado,  I  opened  the  gate  and  was 
gone.  .  .  . 

That  night,  though  I  did  not  realize  it,  my  journey  into  a 
Far  Country  was  begun. 


The  misery  that  followed  this  incident  had  one  compen 
sating  factor.  Although  too  late  to  electrify  Densmore  and 
Principal  Haime  with  my  scholarship,  I  was  determined  to 
go  to  college  now,  somehow,  sometime.  I  would  show  my 
father,  these  companions  of  mine,  and  above  all  Nancy 
herself  the  stuff  of  which  I  was  made,  compel  them  sooner 
or  later  to  admit  that  they  had  misjudged  me.  I  had  been 
possessed  by  similar  resolutions  before,  though  none  so 
strong,  and  they  had  a  way  of  sinking  below  the  surface  of 
my  consciousness,  only  to  rise  again  and  again  until  by  sheer 
pressure  they  achieved  realization. 

Yet  I  might  have  returned  to  Nancy  if  something  had  not 
occurred  which  I  would  have  thought  unbelievable :  she  began 
to  show  a  marked  preference  for  Ralph  Hambleton.  At 
first  I  regarded  this  affair  as  the  most  obvious  of  retaliations. 
She,  likewise,  had  pride.  Gradually,  however,  a  feeling  of 
uneasiness  crept  over  me :  as  pretence,  her  performance  was 
altogether  too  realistic;  she  threw  her  whole  soul  into  it, 
danced  with  Ralph  as  often  as  she  had  ever  danced  with  me, 
took  walks  with  him,  deferred  to  his  opinions  until,  in  spite 
of  myself,  I  became  convinced  that  the  preference  was 
genuine.  I  was  a  curious  mixture  of  self-confidence  and 
self-depreciation,  and  never  had  his  superiority  seemed 


58  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

more  patent  than  now.  His  air  of  satisfaction  was  mad 
dening. 

How  well  I  remember  his  triumph  on  that  hot,  June  morn 
ing  of  our  graduation  from  Densmore,  a  triumph  he  had 
apparently  achieved  without  labour,  and  which  he  seemed 
to  despise.  A  fitful  breeze  blew  through  the  chapel  at  the 
top  of  the  building ;  we,  the  graduates,  sat  in  two  rows  next 
to  the  platform,  and  behind  us  the  wooden  benches  — 
nicked  by  many  knives  —  were  filled  with  sisters  and  mothers 
and  fathers,  some  anxious,  some  proud  and  some  sad.  So 
brief  a  span,  like  that  summer's  day,  and  youth  was  gone ! 
Would  the  time  come  when  we,  too,  should  sit  by  the 
waters  of  Babylon  and  sigh  for  it?  The  world  was  upside 
down. 

We  read  the  one  hundred  and  third  psalm.  Then  Principal 
Haime,  in  his  long  "Prince  Albert"  and  a  ridiculously  in 
adequate  collar  that  emphasized  his  scrawny  neck,  reminded 
us  of  the  sacred  associations  we  had  formed,  of  the  peculiar 
responsibilities  that  rested  on  us,  who  were  the  privileged  of 
the  city.  "We  had  crossed  to-day,"  he  said,  "an  invisible 
threshold.  Some  were  to  go  on  to  higher  institutions  of 
learning.  Others  ..."  I  gulped.  Quoting  the  Scrip 
tures,  he  complimented  those  who  had  made  the  most  of 
their  opportunities.  And  it  was  then  that  he  called  out, 
impressively,  the  name  of  Ralph  Forrester  Hambleton. 
Summa  cum  laude  I  Suddenly  I  was  seized  with  passionate, 
vehement  regrets  at  the  sound  of  the  applause.  /  might 
have  been  the  prize  scholar,  instead  of  Ralph,  if  I  had  only 
worked,  if  I  had  only  realized  what  this  focussing  day  of 
graduation  meant !  /  might  have  been  a  marked  individual, 
with  people  murmuring  words  of  admiration,  of  speculation 
concerning  the  brilliancy  of  my  future !  .  .  .  When  at  last 
my  name  was  called  and  I  rose  to  receive  my  diploma  it 
seemed  as  though  my  incompetency  had  been  proclaimed  to 
the  world.  .  .  . 

That  evening  I  stood  in  the  narrow  gallery  [of  the  flag- 
decked  gymnasium  and  watched  Nancy  dancing  with  Ralph. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  59 

I  let  her  go  without  protest  or  reproach.  A  mysterious 
lesion  seemed  to  have  taken  place,  I  felt  astonished  and  re 
lieved,  yet  I  was  heavy  with  sadness.  My  emancipation  had 
been  bought  at  a  price.  Something  hitherto  spontaneous, 
warm  and  living  was  withering  within  me. 


IT  was  true  to  my  father's  character  that  he  should  have 
waited  until  the  day  after  graduation  to  discuss  my  future,  — 
if  discussion  be  the  proper  word.  The  next  evening  at  sup 
per  he  informed  me  that  he  wished  to  talk  to  me  in  the  sit 
ting-room,  whither  I  followed  him  with  a  sinking  heart.  He 
seated  himself  at  his  desk,  and  sat  for  a  moment  gazing  at 
me  with  a  curious  and  benumbing  expression,  and  then  the 
blow  fell. 

"Hugh,  I  have  spoken  to  your  Cousin  Robert  Breck  about 
you,  and  he  has  kindly  consented  to  give  you  a  trial." 

"To  give  me  a  trial,  sir !"  I  exclaimed. 

"To  employ  you  at  a  small  but  reasonable  salary." 

I  could  find  no  words  to  express  my  dismay.  My  dreams 
had  come  to  this,  that  I  was  to  be  made  a  clerk  in  a  grocery 
store !  The  fact  that  it  was  a  wholesale  grocery  store  was 
little  consolation. 

"  But  father,"  I  faltered,  "  I  don't  want  to  go  into  business." 

"Ah!"  The  sharpness  of  the  exclamation  might  have 
betrayed  to  me  the  pain  in  which  he  was,  but  he  recovered 
himself  instantly.  And  I  could  see  nothing  but  an  inex 
orable  justice  closing  in  on  me  mechanically;  a  blind 
justice,  in  its  inability  to  read  my  soul.  "The  time  to  have 
decided  that,"  he  declared,  "was  some  years  ago,  my  son. 
I  have  given  you  the  best  schooling  a  boy  can  have,  and 
you  have  not  shown  the  least  appreciation  of  your  advan 
tages.  I  do  not  enjoy  saying  this,  Hugh,  but  in  spite  of 
all  my  efforts  and  of  those  of  your  mother,  you  have  remained 
undeveloped  and  irresponsible.  My  hope,  as  you  know, 
was  to  have  made  you  a  professional  man,  a  lawyer,  and  to 

60 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  61 

take  you  into  my  office.  My  father  and  grandfather  were 
professional  men  before  me.  But  you  are  wholly  lacking 
in  ambition." 

And  I  had  burned  with  it  all  my  life ! 

"I  have  ambition,"  I  cried,  the  tears  forcing  themselves 
to  my  eyes. 

"  Ambition  —  for  what,  my  son  ?  " 

I  hesitated.  How  could  I  tell  him  that  my  longings  to  do 
something,  to  be  somebody  in  the  world  were  never  more 
keen  than  at  that  moment?  Matthew  Arnold  had  not 
then  written  his  definition  of  God  as  the  stream  of  tendency 
by  which  we  fulfil  the  laws  of  our  being;  and  my  father, 
at  any  rate,  would  not  have  acquiesced  in  the  definition. 
Dimly  but  passionately  I  felt  then,  as  I  had  always  felt, 
that  I  had  a  mission  to  perform,  a  service  to  do  which  ulti 
mately  would  be  revealed  to  me.  But  the  hopelessness  of 
explaining  this  took  on,  now,  the  proportions  of  a  tragedy. 
And  I  could  only  gaze  at  him. 

"  What  kind  of  ambition,  Hugh  ?  "  he  repeated  sadly. 

"I  —  I  have  sometimes  thought  I  could  write,  sir,  if  I  had 
a  chance.  I  like  it  better  than  anything  else.  I  —  I  have 
tried  it.  And  if  I  could  only  go  to  college  — " 

"Literature!"  There  was  in  his  voice  a  scandalized 
note. 

"Why  not,  father?"    I  asked  weakly. 

And  now  it  was  he  who,  for  the  first  time,  seemed  to  be  at  a 
loss  to  express  himself.  He  turned  in  his  chair,  and  with  a 
sweep  of  the  hand  indicated  the  long  rows  of  musty-backed 
volumes.  "Here,"  he  said,  "you  have  had  at  your  disposal 
as  well-assorted  a  small  library  as  the  city  contains,  and  you 
have  not  availed  yourself  of  it.  Yet  you  talk  to  me  of  liter 
ature  as  a  profession.  I  am  afraid,  Hugh,  that  this  is  merely 
another  indication  of  your  desire  to  shun  hard  work,  and  I 
must  tell  you  frankly  that  I  fail  to  see  in  you  the  least  qual 
ification  for  such  a  career.  You  have  not  even  inherited  my 
taste  for  books.  I  venture  to  say,  for  instance,  that  you 
have  never  even  read  a  paragraph  of  Plutarch,  and  yet  when 


62  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

I  was  your  age  I  was  completely  familiar  with  the  Lives. 
You  will  not  read  Scott  or  Dickens." 

The  impeachment  was  not  to  be  denied,  for  the  classics 
were  hateful  to  me.  Naturally  I  was  afraid  to  make  such  a 
damning  admission.  My  father  had  succeeded  in  presenting 
my  ambition  as  the  height  of  absurdity  and  presumption, 
and  with  something  of  the  despair  of  a  shipwrecked  mariner 
my  eyes  rested  on  the  green  expanses  of  those  book-backs, 
Bohn's  Standard  Library  !  Nor  did  it  occur  to  him  or  to  me 
that  one  might  be  great  in  literature  without  having  read  so 
much  as  a  gritty  page  of  them.  .  .  . 

He  finished  his  argument  by  reminding  me  that  worthless 
persons  sought  to  enter  the  arts  in  the  search  for  a  fool's 
paradise,  and  in  order  to  satisfy  a  reprehensible  craving  for 
notoriety.  The  implication  was  clear,  that  imaginative 
production  could  not  be  classed  as  hard  work.  And  he 
assured  me  that  literature  was  a  profession  in  which  no  one 
could  afford  to  be  second  class.  A  Longfellow,  a  Harriet 
Beecher  Stowe,  or  nothing.  This  was  a  practical  age  and  a 
practical  country.  We  had  indeed  produced  Irvings  and 
Hawthornes,  but  the  future  of  American  letters  was,  to 
say  the  least,  problematical.  We  were  a  utilitarian 
people  who  would  never  create  a  great  literature,  and  he 
reminded  me  that  the  days  of  the  romantic  and  the 
picturesque  had  passed.  He  gathered  that  I  desired  to  be 
a  novelist.  Well,  novelists,  with  certain  exceptions,  were 
fantastic  fellows  who  blew  iridescent  soap-bubbles  and  who 
had  no  morals.  In  the  face  of  such  a  philosophy  as  his  I  was 
I  mute.  The  world  appeared  a  dreary  place  of  musty  offices 
and  smoky  steel-works,  of  coal  dust,  of  labour  without  a 
spark  of  inspiration.  And  that  other,  the  world  of  my 
dreams,  simply  did  not  exist. 

Incidentally  my  father  had  condemned  Cousin  Robert's 
wholesale  grocery  business  as  a  refuge  of  the  lesser  of  intel 
lect  that  could  not  achieve  the  professions,  —  an  inference 
not  calculated  to  stir  my  ambition  and  liking  for  it  at  the 
start. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  63 


I  began  my  business  career  on  the  following  Monday 
morning.  At  breakfast,  held  earlier  than  usual  on  my  ac 
count,  my  mother's  sympathy  was  the  more  eloquent  for 
being  unspoken,  while  my  father  wore  an  air  of  unwonted 
cheerfulness;  charging  me,  when  I  departed,  to  give  his 
kindest  remembrances  to  my  Cousin  Robert  Breck.  With 
a  sense  of  martyrdom  somehow  deepened  by  this  attitude 
of  my  parents  I  boarded  a  horse-car  and  went  down  town. 
Early  though  it  was,  the  narrow  streets  of  the  wholesale 
district  reverberated  with  the  rattle  of  trucks  and  echoed 
with  the  shouts  of  drivers.  The  day  promised  to  be  scorch 
ing.  At  the  door  of  the  warehouse  of  Breck  and  Company 
I  was  greeted  by  the  ineffable  smell  of  groceries  in  which 
the  suggestion  of  parched  coffee  prevailed.  This  is  the  sharp 
est  remembrance  of  all,  and  even  to-day  that  odour  affects 
me  somewhat  in  the  manner  that  the  interior  of  a  ship 
affects  a  person  prone  to  seasickness.  My  Cousin  Robert, 
in  his  well-worn  alpaca  coat,  was  already  seated  at  his  desk 
behind  the  clouded  glass  partition  next  the  alley  at  the 
back  of  the  store,  and  as  I  entered  he  gazed  at  me  over  his 
steel-rimmed  spectacles  with  that  same  disturbing  look  of 
clairvoyance  I  have  already  mentioned  as  one  of  his  char 
acteristics.  The  grey  eyes  were  quizzical,  and  yet  seemed 
to  express  a  little  commiseration. 

"Well,  Hugh,  you've  decided  to  honour  us,  have  you?" 
he  asked. 

"  I'm  much  obliged  for  giving  me  the  place,  Cousin  Robert," 
I  replied. 

But  he  had  no  use  for  that  sort  of  politeness,  and  he  saw 
through  me,  as  always. 

"So  you're  not  too  tony  for  the  grocery  business,  eh?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir." 

"It  was  good  enough  for  old  Benjamin  Breck,"  he  said. 
"Well,  I'll  give  you  a  fair  trial,  my  boy,  and  no  favouritism 
on  account  of  relationship,  any  more  than  to  Willie." 


64  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

His  strong  voice  resounded  through  the  store,  and  pres 
ently  my  cousin  Willie  appeared  in  answer  to  his  summons, 
the  same  Willie  who  used  to  lead  me,  on  mischief  bent, 
through  the  barns  and  woods  and  fields  of  Claremore.  He 
was  barefoot  no  longer,  though  freckled  still,  grown  lanky 
and  tall;  he  wore  a  coarse  blue  apron  that  fell  below  his 
knees,  and  a  pencil  was  stuck  behind  his  ear. 

"  Get  an  apron  for  Hugh,"  said  his  father. 

Willie's  grin  grew  wider. 

"I'll  fit  him  out,"  he  said. 

"Start  him  in  the  shipping  department,"  directed  Cousin 
Robert,  and  turned  to  his  letters. 

I  was  forthwith  provided  with  an  apron,  and  introduced 
to  the  slim  and  anaemic  but  cheerful  Johnny  Hedges,  the  ship 
ping  clerk,  hard  at  work  in  the  alley.  Secretly  I  looked 
down  on  my  fellow-clerks,  as  one  destined  for  a  higher  mis 
sion,  made  out  of  better  stuff,  —  finer  stuff.  Despite  my 
attempt  to  hide  this  sense  of  superiority  they  were  swift  to 
discover  it ;  and  perhaps  it  is  to  my  credit  as  well  as  theirs 
that  they  did  not  resent  it.  Curiously  enough,  they  seemed 
to  acknowledge  it.  Before  the  week  was  out  I  had  earned 
the  nickname  of  Beau  Brummel. 

"Say,  Beau,"  Johnny  Hedges  would  ask,  when  I  appeared 
of  a  morning,  "what  happened  in  the  great  world  last 
night?" 

I  had  an  affection  for  them,  these  fellow-clerks,  and  I  often 
wondered  at  their  contentment  with  the  drab  lives  they  led, 
at  their  self-congratulation  for  "having  a  job"  at  Breck  and 
Company's. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  like  this  kind  of  work?"  I 
exclaimed  one  day  to  Johnny  Hedges,  as  we  sat  on  barrels  of 
XXXX  flour  looking  out  at  the  hot  sunlight  in  the  alley. 

"It  ain't  a  question  of  liking  it,  Beau,"  he  rebuked  me. 
"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk,  since  your  father's  a  mil- 
lionnaire  "  (a  fiction  so  firmly  embedded  in  their  heads  that 
no  amount  of  denial  affected  it),  "but  what  do  you  think 
would  happen  to  me  if  I  was  fired  ?  I  couldn't  go  home  and 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  65- 

take  it  easy  —  you  bet  not.  I,  just  want  to  shake  hands 
with  myself  when  I  think  that  I've  got  a  home,  and  a  job 
like  this.  I  know  a  feller  —  a  hard  worker  he  was,  too  — 
who  walked  the  pavements  for  three  months  when  the  Col- 
vers  failed,  and  couldn't  get  nothing,  and  took  to  drink,  and 
the  last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  sleeping  in  police  stations  and 
walking  the  ties,  and  his  wife's  a  waitress  at  a  cheap  hotel. 
Don't  you  think  it's  easy  to  get  a  job." 

I  was  momentarily  sobered  by  the  earnestness  with  which 
he  brought  home  to  me  the  relentlessness  of  our  civilization. 
It  seemed  incredible.  I  should  have  learned  a  lesson  in 
that  store.  Barring  a  few  discordant  days  when  the  orders 
came  in  too  fast  or  when  we  were  short  handed  because  of 
sickness,  it  was  a  veritable  hive  of  happiness;  morning 
after  morning  clerks  and  porters  arrived,  pale,  yet  smiling, 
and  laboured  with  cheerfulness  from  eight  o'clock  until  six, 
and  departed  as  cheerfully  for  modest  homes  in  obscure 
neighbourhoods  that  seemed  to  me  areas  of  exile.  They 
were  troubled  with  no  visions  of  better  things.  When  the 
travelling  men  came  in  from  the  "road"  there  was  great 
hilarity.  Important  personages,  these,  looked  up  to  by  the 
city  clerks;  jolly,  reckless,  Elizabethan-like  rovers,  who- 
had  tasted  of  the  wine  of  liberty  —  and  of  other  wines  — 
with  the  ineradicable  lust  for  the  road  in  their  blood.  No 
more  routine  for  Jimmy  Bowles,  who  was  king  of  them  all. 
I  shudder  to  think  how  much  of  my  knowledge  of  life  I 
owe  to  this  Jimmy,  whose  stories  would  have  filled  a  quarto 
volume,  but  could  on  no  account  have  been  published ;  for 
a  self-respecting  post-office  would  not  have  allowed  them  to  ; 
pass  through  the  mails.  As  it  was,  Jimmy  gave  them  cir-  •; 
culation  enough.  I  can  still  see  his  round  face,  with  the  nose 
just  indicated,  his  wicked,  twinkling  little  eyes,  and  I  can 
hear  his  husky  voice  fall  to  a  whisper  when  "the  boss"  passed 
through  the  store.  Jimmy,  when  visiting  us,  always  had  a 
group  around  him.  His  audacity  with  women  amazed  me, 
for  he  never  passed  one  of  the  "lady  clerks"  without  some 
form  of  caress,  which  they  resented  but  invariably  laughed 


66  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

at.  One  day  he  imparted  to  me  his  code  of  morality:  he 
never  made  love  to  another  man's  wife,  so  he  assured  me,  if 
he  knew  the  man !  The  secret  of  life  he  had  discovered  in 
laughter,  and  by  laughter  he  sold  quantities  of  Cousin 
Robert's  groceries. 

Mr.  Bowles  boasted  of  a  catholic  acquaintance  in  all  the 
cities  of  his  district,  but  before  venturing  forth  to  conquer 
these  he  had  learned  his  own  city  by  heart.  My  Cousin 
Robert  was  not  aware  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Bowles  "showed" 
the  town  to  certain  customers.  He  even  desired  to  show  it  to 
me,  but  an  epicurean  strain  in  my  nature  held  me  back. 
Johnny  Hedges  went  with  him  occasionally,  and  Henry 
Schneider,  the  bill  clerk,  and  I  listened  eagerly  to  their  expe 
riences,  afterwards  confiding  them  to  Tom.  .  .  . 

There  were  times  when,  driven  by  an  overwhelming  curi 
osity,  I  ventured  into  certain  strange  streets,  alone,  shiver 
ing  with  cold  and  excitement,  gripped  by  a  fascination  I  did 
not  comprehend,  my  eyes  now  averted,  now  irresistibly 
raised  toward  the  white  streaks  of  light  that  outlined  the 
windows  of  dark  houses.  .  .  . 

One  winter  evening  as  I  was  going  home,  I  encountered  at 
the  mail-box  a  young  woman  who  shot  at  me  a  queer,  twisted 
smile.  I  stood  still,  as  though  stunned,  looking  after  her, 
and  when  halfway  across  the  slushy  street  she  turned  and 
smiled  again.  Prodigiously  excited,  I  followed  her,  fearful 
that  I  might  be  seen  by  someone  who  knew  me,  nor  was  it 
until  she  reached  an  unfamiliar  street  that  I  ventured  to 
overtake  her.  She  confounded  me  by  facing  me. 

"  Get  out ! "  she  cried  fiercely. 

I  halted  in  my  tracks,  overwhelmed  with  shame.  But  she 
continued  to  regard  me  by  the  light  of  the  street  lamp. 

"You  didn't  want  to  be  seen  with  me  on  Second  Street, 
did  you  ?  You're  one  of  those  sneaking  swells." 

The  shock  of  this  sudden  onslaught  was  tremendous.  I 
stood  frozen  to  the  spot,  trembling,  convicted,  for  I  knew  that 
her  accusation  was  just ;  I  had  wounded  her,  and  I  had  a 
desire  to  make  amends. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  67 

"  I'm  sorry,"  I  faltered.  "  I  didn't  mean  —  to  offend  you. 
And  you  smiled  —  I  got  no  farther.  She  began  to  laugh, 
and  so  loudly  that  I  glanced  anxiously  about.  I  would  have 
fled,  but  something  still  held  me,  something  that  belied  the 
harshness  of  her  laugh. 

"You're  just  a  kid,"  she  told  me.  "Say,  you  get  along 
home,  and  tell  your  mam'ma  I  sent  you." 

Whereupon  I  departed  in  a  state  of  humiliation  and  self- 
reproach  I  had  never  before  known,  wandering  about  aim 
lessly  for  a  long  time.  When  at  length  I  arrived  at  home, 
late  for  supper,  my  mother's  solicitude  only  served  to 
deepen  my  pain.  She  went  to  the  kitchen  herself  to  see  if 
my  mince-pie  were  hot,  and  served  me  with  her  own  hands. 
My  father  remained  at  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  table  while 
I  tried  to  eat,  smiling  indulgently  at  her  ministrations. 

"Oh,  a  little  hard  work  won't  hurt  him,  Sarah,"  he  said. 
"When  I  was  his  age  I  often  worked  until  eleven  o'clock  and 
never  felt  the  worse  for  it.  Business  must  be  pretty  good, 
eh,  Hugh?" 

I  had  never  seen  him  in  a  more  relaxing  mood,  a  more 
approving  one.  My  mother  sat  down  beside  me.  .  .  . 
Words  seem  useless  to  express  the  complicated  nature  of  my 
suffering  at  that  moment,  —  my  remorse,  my  sense  of  decep 
tion,  of  hypocrisy,  —  yes,  and  my  terror.  I  tried  to  talk 
naturally,  to  answer  my  father's  questions  about  affairs  at 
the  store,  while  all  the  time  my  eyes  rested  upon  the  objects 
of  the  room,  familiar  since  childhood.  Here  were  warmth, 
love,  and  safety.  Why  could  I  not  be  content  with  them, 
thankful  for  them  ?  What  was  it  in  me  that  drove  me  from 
these  sheltering  walls  out  into  the  dark  places?  I  glanced 
at  my  father.  Had  he  ever  known  these  wild,  destroying  de 
sires  ?  Oh,  if  I  only  could  have  confided  in  him  !  The  very 
idea  of  it  was  preposterous.  Such  placidity  as  theirs  would 
never  understand  the  nature  of  my  temptations,  and  I 
pictured  to  myself  their  horror  and  despair  at  my  revelation. 
In  imagination  I  beheld  their  figures  receding  while  I  drifted 
out  to  sea,  alone.  Would  the  tide  —  which  was  somehow 


68  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

urithin  me  —  carry  me  out  and  out,  in  spite  of  all  I  could 
do? 

"  Give  me  that  man 

That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart's  core.  .  .  ." 


I  did  not  shirk  my  tasks  at  the  store,  although  I  never  got 
over  the  feeling  that  a  fine  instrument  was  being  employed 
where  a  coarser  one  would  have  done  equally  well.  There 
were  moments  when  I  was  almost  overcome  by  surges  of 
self-commiseration  and  of  impotent  anger:  for  instance,  I 
was  once  driven  out  of  a  shop  by  an  incensed  German  grocer 
whom  I  had  asked  to  settle  a  long-standing  account.  Yet 
the  days  passed,  the  daily  grind  absorbed  my  energies,  and 
when  I  was  not  collecting,  or  tediously  going  over  the  stock 
in  the  dim  recesses  of  the  store,  I  was  running  errands  in  the 
wholesale  district,  treading  the  burning  brick  of  the  pave 
ments,  dodging  heavy  trucks  and  drays  and  perspiring  clerks 
who  flew  about  with  memorandum  pads  in  their  hands,  or 
awaiting  the  pleasure  of  bank  tellers.  Save  Harvey,  the 
venerable  porter,  I  was  the  last  to  leave  the  store  in  the  even 
ing,  and  I  always  came  away  with  the  taste  on  my  palate  of 
Breck  and  Company's  mail,  it  being  my  final  duty  to  "lick" 
the  whole  of  it  and  deposit  it  in  the  box  at  the  corner.  The 
gum  on  the  envelopes  tasted  of  winter-green. 

My  Cousin  Robert  was  somewhat  astonished  at  my  appli 
cation. 

"We'll  make  a  man  of  you  yet,  Hugh,"  he  said  to  me  once, 
when  I  had  performed  a  commission  with  unexpected  de 
spatch.  .  .  . 

Business  was  his  all-in-all,  and  he  had  an  undisguised  con 
tempt  for  higher  education.  To  send  a  boy  to  college  was, 
in  his  opinion,  to  run  no  inconsiderable  risk  of  ruining  him. 
What  did  they  amount  to  when  they  came  home,  strutting 
like  peacocks,  full  of  fads  and  fancies,  and  much  too  good 
to  associate  with  decent,  hard-working  citizens  ?  Neverthe- 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  69 

less  when  autumn  came  and  my  friends  departed  with  eclat 
for  the  East,  I  was  desperate  indeed !  Even  the  contempla 
tion  of  Robert  Breck  did  not  console  me,  and  yet  here,  in 
truth,  was  a  life  which  might  have  served  me  as  a  model. 
His  store  was  his  castle;  and  his  reputation  for  integrity 
and  square  dealing  as  wide  as  the  city.  Often  I  used  to 
watch  him  with  a  certain  envy  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  greeted  fellow-merchant  and 
banker  with  his  genuine  and  dignified  directness.  This  man 
was  his  own  master.  They  all  called  him  "Robert,"  and 
they  made  it  clear  by  their  manner  that  they  knew  they  were 
addressing  one  who  fulfilled  his  obligations  and  asked  no 
favours.  Crusty  old  Nathaniel  Durrett  once  declared  that 
when  you  bought  a  bill  of  goods  from  Robert  Breck  you  did 
not  have  to  check  up  the  invoice  or  employ  a  chemist.  Here 
was  a  character  to  mould  upon.  If  my  ambition  could  but 
have  been  bounded  by  Breck  and  Company,  I,  too,  might  have 
come  to  stand  in  that  doorway  content  with  a  tribute  that  was 
greater  than  Csesar's. 


I  had  been  dreading  the  Christmas  holidays,  which  were 
indeed  to  be  no  holidays  for  me.  And  when  at  length  they 
arrived  they  brought  with  them  from  the  East  certain  heroes 
fashionably  clad,  citizens  now  of  a  larger  world  than  mine. 
These  former  companions  had  become  superior  beings,  they 
could  not  help  showing  it,  and  their  presence  destroyed  the 
Balance  of  Things.  For  alas,  I  had  not  wholly  abjured  the 
feminine  sex  after  all !  And  from  being  a  somewhat  impor 
tant  factor  in  the  lives  of  Ruth  Hollister  and  other  young 
women  I  suddenly  became  of  no  account.  New  interests, 
new  rivalries  and  loyalties  had  arisen  in  which  I  had  no 
share;  I  must  perforce  busy  myself  with  invoices  of  flour 
and  coffee  and  canned  fruits  while  sleigh  rides  and  coasting 
and  skating  expeditions  to  Blackstone  Lake  followed  one 
another  day  after  day,  —  for  the  irony  of  circumstances  had 


70  /A  FAR  COUNTRY 

decreed  a  winter  uncommonly  cold.  There  were  even 
ing  parties,  too,  where  I  felt  like  an  alien,  though  my 
friends  were  guilty  of  no  conscious  neglect;  and  had  I 
been  able  to  accept  the  situation  simply,  I  should  not  have 
suffered. 

The  principal  event  of  those  holidays  was  a  play  given  in 
i  the  old  Hambleton  house  (which  later  became  the  Boyne 
1  Club),  under  the  direction  of  the  lively  and  talented  Mrs. 
Watling.  I  was  invited,  indeed,  to  participate ;  but  even  if  I 
had  had  the  desire  I  could  not  have  done  so,  since  the  rehear 
sals  were  carried  on  in  the  daytime.  Nancy  was  the  leading 
lady.  I  have  neglected  to  mention  that  she  too  had  been 
away  almost  continuously  since  our  misunderstanding,  for 
the  summer  in  the  mountains,  —  a  sojourn  recommended 
for  her  mother's  health;  and  in  the  autumn  she  had  some 
what  abruptly  decided  to  go  East  to  boarding-school  at 
Farmington.  During  the  brief  months  of  her  absence  she 
had  marvellously  acquired  maturity  and  aplomb,  a  worldli- 
ness  of  manner  and  a  certain  frivolity  that  seemed  to  put 
those  who  surrounded  her  on  a  lower  plane.  She  was  only 
seventeen,  yet  she  seemed  the  woman  of  thirty  whose  role 
she  played.  First  there  were  murmurs,  then  sustained 
applause.  I  scarcely  recognized  her :  she  had  taken  wings 
and  soared  far  above  me,  suggesting  a  sphere  of  power  and 
luxury  hitherto  unimagined  and  beyond  the  scope  of  the 
world  to  which  I  belonged. 

Her  triumph  was  genuine.  When  the  play  was  over  she 
was  immediately  surrounded  by  enthusiastic  admirers  eager 
to  congratulate  her,  to  dance  with  her.  I  too  would  have 
gone  forward,  but  a  sense  of  inadequacy,  of  unimportance, 
of  an  inability  to  cope  with  her,  held  me  back,  and  from  a 
corner  I  watched  her  sweeping  around  the  room,  holding 
up  her  train,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Bob  Lansing,  a  class 
mate  whom  Ralph  had  brought  home  from  Harvard.  Then 
it  was  Ralph's  turn :  that  affair  seemed  still  to  be  going  on. 
My  feelings  were  a  strange  medley  of  despondency  and  stimu 
lation. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  71 

Our  eyes  met.  Her  partner  now  was  Ham  Durrett. 
Capriciously  releasing  him,  she  stood  before  me,  — 

"Hugh,  you  haven't  asked  me  to  dance,  or  even  told  me 
what  you  thought  of  the  play." 

"  I  thought  it  was  splendid,"  I  said  lamely. 

Because  she  refrained  from  replying  I  was  farther  than 
ever  from  understanding  her.  How  was  I  to  divine  what  she 
felt?  or  whether  any  longer  she  felt  at  all?  Here,  in  this 
costume  of  a  woman  of  the  world,  with  the  string  of  pearls 
at  her  neck  to  give  her  the  final  touch  of  brilliancy,  was  a 
strange,  new  creature  who  baffled  and  silenced  me.  .  .  .  We 
had  not  gone  halfway,  across  the  room  when  she  halted 
abruptly. 

"I'm  tired,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  don't  feel  like  dancing 
just  now,"  and  led  the  way  to  the  big,  rose  punch-bowl,  one 
of  the  Durretts'  most  cherished  possessions.  Glancing  up 
at  me  over  the  glass  of  lemonade  I  had  given  her  she  went  on : 
"  Why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me  since  I  came  home  ?  I've 
wanted  to  talk  to  you,  to  hear  how  you  are  getting  along." 

Was  she  trying  to  make  amends,  or  reminding  me  in  this 
subtle  way  of  the  cause  of  our  quarrel?  What  I  was 
aware  of  as  I  looked  at  her  was  an  attitude,  a  vantage  point 
apparently  gained  by  contact  with  that  mysterious  outer 
world  which  thus  vicariously  had  laid  its  spell  on  me ;  I  was 
tremendously  struck  by  the  thought  that  to  achieve  this 
attitude  meant  emancipation,  invulnerability  against  the 
aches  and  pains  which  otherwise  our  fellow-beings  had  the 
power  to  give  us ;  mastery  over  life,  —  the  ability  to  choose 
calmly,  as  from  a  height,  what  were  best  for  one's  self,  un-  < 
troubled  by  loves  and  hates.  Untroubled  by  loves  and  hates ! 
At  that  very  moment,  paradoxically,  I  loved  her  madly,  but 
with  a  love  not  of  the  old  quality,  a  love  that  demanded  a  van 
tage  point  of  its  own.  Even  though  she  had  made  an  advance 
—  and  some  elusiveness  in  her  manner  led  me  to  doubt  it  — 
I  could  not  go  to  her  now.  I  must  go  as  -a  conqueror,  —  a 
conqueror  in  the  lists  she  herself  had  chosen,  where  the 
prize  is  power. 


72  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Oh,  I'm  getting  along  pretty  well,"  I  said.  "At  any 
rate,  they  don't  complain  of  me." 

"Somehow,"  she  ventured,  "somehow  it's  hard  to  think 
of  you  as  a  business  man." 

I  took  this  for  a  reference  to  the  boast  I  had  made  that 
I  would  go  to  college. 

"Business  isn't  so  bad  as  it  might  be,"  I  assured  her. 

"  /  think  a  man  ought  to  go  away  to  college,"  she  declared, 
in  what  seemed  another  tone.  "He  makes  friends,  learns 
certain  things,  —  it  gives  him  finish.  We  are  very  provin 
cial  here." 

Provincial !  I  did  not  stop  to  reflect  how  recently  she  must 
have  acquired  the  word ;  it  summed  up  precisely  the  self- 
estimate  at  which  I  had  arrived.  The  sting  went  deep. 
Before  I  could  think  of  an  effective  reply  Nancy  was  being 
carried  off  by  the  young  man  from  the  East,  who  was  clearly 
infatuated.  He  was  not  provincial.  She  smiled  back  at 
me  brightly  over  his  shoulder.  ...  In  that  instant  were 
fused  in  one  resolution  all  the  discordant  elements  within 
me  of  aspiration  and  discontent.  It  was  not  so  much  that 
I  would  show  Nancy  what  I  intended  to  do  —  I  would  show 
myself ;  and  I  felt  a  sudden  elation,  and  accession  of  power 
that  enabled  me  momentarily  to  despise  the  puppets  with 
whom  she  danced.  .  .  .  From  this  mood  I  was  awakened 
with  a  start  to  feel  a  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  I  turned  to 
confront  her  father,  McAlery  Willett;  a  gregarious,  easy 
going,  pleasure-loving  gentleman  who  made  only  a  pretence 
of  business,  having  inherited  an  ample  fortune  from  his 
,  father,  unique  among  his  generation  in  our  city  in  that  he 
paid  some  attention  to  fashion  in  his  dress ;  good  living  was 
already  beginning  to  affect  his  figure.  His  mellow  voice 
had  a  way  of  breaking  an  octave. 

"Don't  worry,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "You  stick  to  business. 
These  college  fellows  are  cocks  of  the  walk  just  now,  but  some 
day  you'll  be  able  to  snap  your  fingers  at  all  of  'em." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  73 


The  next  day  was  dark,  overcast,  smoky,  damp  —  the 
soft,  unwholesome  dampness  that  follows  a  spell  of  hard 
frost.  I  spent  the  morning  and  afternoon  on  the  gloomy 
third  floor  of  Breck  and  Company,  making  a  list  of  the  stock. 
I  remember  the  place  as  though  I  had  just  stepped  out  of  it, 
the  freight  elevator  at  the  back,  the  dusty,  iron  columns, 
the  continuous  piles  of  cases  and  bags  and  barrels  with 
narrow  aisles  between  them;  the  dirty  windows,  spotted 
and  soot-streaked,  that  looked  down  on  Second  Street.  I 
was  determined  now  to  escape  from  all  this,  and  I  had  my 
plan  in  mind.  I 

No  sooner  had  I  swallowed  my  supper  that  evening  than 
I  set  out  at  a  swift  pace  for  a  modest  residence  district  ten 
blocks  away,  coming  to  a  little  frame  house  set  back  in  a 
yard,  —  one  of  those  houses  in  which  the  ringing  of  the  front 
door-bell  produces  the  greatest  commotion ;  children's  voices 
were  excitedly  raised  and  then  hushed.  After  a  brief  silence 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  pleasant-faced,  brown-bearded  man, 
who  stood  staring  at  me  in  surprise.  His  hair  was  rumpled, 
he  wore  an  old  house  coat  with  a  hole  in  the  elbow,  and  with 
one  finger  he  kept  his  place  in  the  book  which  he  held  in  his 
hand. 

"Hugh  Paret!"  he  exclaimed. 

He  ushered  me  into  a  little  parlour  lighted  by  two  lamps, 
that  bore  every  evidence  of  having  been  recently  vacated. 
Its  features  somehow  bespoke  a  struggle  for  existence;  as 
though  its  occupants  had  worried  much  and  loved  much.  It 
was  a  room  best  described  by  the  word  "home"  —  home 
made  more  precious  by  a  certain  precariousness.  Toys  and 
school-books  strewed  the  floor,  a  sewing-bag  and  apron  lay 
across  the  sofa,  and  in  one  corner  was  a  roll-topped  desk  of 
varnished  oak.  The  seats  of  the  chairs  were  comfortably 
depressed. 

So  this  was  where  Mr.  Wood  lived !  Mr.  Wood,  instructor 
in  Latin  and  Greek  at  Densmore  Academy.  It  was  now 


74  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

borne  in  on  me  for  the  first  time  that  he  did  live  and  have  his 
ties  like  any  other  human  being,  instead  of  just  appearing 
magically  from  nowhere  on  a  platform  in  a  chalky  room 
at  nine  every  morning,  to  vanish  again  in  the  afternoon.  I 
had  formerly  stood  in  awe  of  his  presence.  But  now  I  was 
suddenly  possessed  by  an  embarrassment,  and  (shall  I  say 
it  ?)  by  a  commiseration  bordering  on  contempt  for  a  man  who 
would  consent  to  live  thus  for  the  sake  of  being  a  school 
teacher.  How  strange  that  civilization  should  set  such  a 
high  value  on  education  and  treat  its  functionaries  with 
such  neglect ! 

Mr.  Wood's  surprise  at  seeing  me  was  genuine.  For  I 
had  never  shown  a  particular  interest  in  him,  nor  in  the 
knowledge  which  he  strove  to  impart. 

"I  thought  you  had  forgotten  me,  Hugh,"  he  said, 
and  added  whimsically:  "most  boys  do,  when  they 
graduate." 

I  felt  the  reproach,  which  made  it  the  more  difficult  for 
me  to  state  my  errand. 

"I  knew  you  sometimes  took  pupils  in  the  evening,  Mr. 
Wood." 

"Pupils,  —  yes,"  he  replied,  still  eyeing  me.  Suddenly 
his  eyes  twinkled.  He  had  indeed  no  reason  to  suspect  me 
of  thirsting  for  learning.  "But  I  was  under  the  impression 
that  you  had  gone  into  business,  Hugh." 

"The  fact  is,  sir,"  I  explained  somewhat  painfully,  "that 
I  am  not  satisfied  with  business.     I  feel  —  as  if  I  ought  to 
know  more.    And  I  came  to  see  if  you  would  give  me  lessons 
*?  about  three  nights  a  week,  because  I  want  to  take  the  Har 
vard  examinations  next  summer." 

ST  Thus  I  made  it  appear,  and  so  persuaded  myself,  that  my 
ambition  had  been  prompted  by  a  craving  for  knowledge. 
As  soon  as  he  could  recover  himself  he  reminded  me  that  he 
had  on  many  occasions  declared  I  had  a  brain. 

"Your  father  must  be  very  happy  over  this  decision  of 
yours,"  he  said. 

That  was  the  point,  I  told  him.    It  was  to  be  a  surprise 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  75 

for  my  father ;  I  was  to  take  the  examinations  first,  and  in 
form  him  afterwards. 

To  my  intense  relief,  Mr.  Wood  found  the  scheme  wholly 
laudable,  and  entered  into  it  with  zest.  He  produced  ex 
aminations  of  preceding  years  from  a  pigeonhole  in  his  desk, 
and  inside  of  half  an  hour  the  arrangement  was  made,  the 
price  of  the  lessons  settled.  They  were  well  within  my 
salary,  which  recently  had  been  raised.  .  .  . 

When  I  went  down  town,  or  collecting  bills  for  Breck  and 
Company,  I  took  a  text-book  along  with  me  in  the  street-cars. 
Now  at  last  I  had  behind  my  studies  a  driving  force.  Algebra, 
Latin,  Greek  and  history  became  worth  while,  means  to  an 
end.  I  astonished  Mr.  Wood;  and  sometimes  he  would 
tilt  back  his  chair,  take  off  his  spectacles  and  pull  his  beard. 

"Why  in  the  name  of  all  the  sages,"  he  would  demand, 
"couldn't  you  have  done  this  well  at  school?  You  might 
have  led  your  class,  instead  of  Ralph  Hambleton." 

I  grew  very  fond  of  Mr.  Wood,  and  even  of  his  thin  little 
wife,  who  occasionally  flitted  into  the  room  after  we  had 
finished.  I  fully  intended  to  keep  up  with  them  in  after 
life,  but  I  never  did.  I  forgot  them  completely.  .  .  . 
-3k  My  parents  were  not  wholly  easy  in  their  minds  concerning 
me;  they  were  bewildered  by  the  new  aspect  I  presented. 
For  my  lately  acquired  motive  was  strong  enough  to  compel 
me  to  restrict  myself  socially,  and  the  evenings  I  spent  at 
home  were  given  to  study,  usually  in  my  own  room.  Once 
I  was  caught  with  a  Latin  grammar:  I  was  just  "looking 
over  it, "  I  said.  My  mother  sighed.  I  knew  what  was  in 
i  her  mind ;  she  had  always  been  secretly  disappointed  that 
i'I  had  not  been  sent  to  college.  And  presently,  when  my 
father  went  out  to  attend  a  trustee's  meeting,  the  impulse 
to  confide  in  her  almost  overcame  me ;  I  loved  her  with  that 
affection  which  goes  out  to  those  whom  we  feel  understand 
us,  but  I  was  learning  to  restrain  my  feelings.  She  looked 
at  me  wistfully.  ...  I  knew  that  she  would  insist  on  telling 
my  father,  and  thus  possibly  frustrate  my  plans.  That  I 
was  not  discovered  was  due  to  a  certain  quixotic  twist  in 


76  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

my  father's  character.  I  was  working  now,  and  though  not 
actually  earning  my  own  living,  he  no  longer  felt  justified 
in  prying  into  my  affairs. 

When  June  arrived,  however,  my  tutor  began  to  show 
signs  that  his  conscience  was  troubling  him,  and  one  night 
he  delivered  his  ultimatum.  The  joke  had  gone  far  enough, 
he  implied.  My  intentions,  indeed,  he  found  praiseworthy, 
but  in  his  opinion  it  was  high  time  that  my  father  were  in 
formed  of  them;  he  was  determined  to  call  at  my  father's 
office. 

The  next  morning  was  blue  with  the  presage  of  showers; 
blue,  too,  with  the  presage  of  fate.  An  interminable  morn 
ing.  My  tasks  had  become  utterly  distasteful.  And  in 
the  afternoon,  when  I  sat  down  to  make  out  invoices,  I 
wrote  automatically  the  names  of  the  familiar  customers,  my 
mind  now  exalted  by  hope,  now  depressed  by  anxiety.  The 
result  of  an  interview  perhaps  even  now  going  on  would 
determine  whether  or  no  I  should  be  immediately  released 
from  a  slavery  I  detested.  Would  Mr.  Wood  persuade  my 
father?  If  not,  I  was  prepared  to  take  more  desperate 
measures;  remain  in  the  grocery  business  I  would  not.  In 
the  evening,  as  I  hurried  homeward  from  the  corner  where 
the  Boyne  Street  car  had  dropped  me,  I  halted  suddenly  in 
front  of  the  Peters  house,  absorbing  the  scene  where  my 
childhood  had  been  spent:  each  of  these  spreading  maples 
was  an  old  friend,  and  in  these  yards  I  had  played  and 
dreamed.  An  unaccountable  sadness  passed  over  me  as 
I  walked  on  toward  our  gate ;  I  entered  it,  gained  the  door 
way  of  the  house  and  went  upstairs,  glancing  into  the  sitting- 
room.  My  mother  sat  by  the  window,  sewing.  She  looked 
up  at  me  with  an  ineffable  expression,  in  which  I  read  a  trace 
of  tears. 

"Hugh!"  she  exclaimed. 

I  felt  very  uncomfortable,  and  stood  looking  down  at  her. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  us,  my  son?"  In  her  voice  was  in 
truth  reproach,  yet  mingled  with  that  was  another  note, 
which  I  think  was  pride. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  77 

"What  has  father  said?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  he  will  tell  you  himself.  If —  Ldon'tknow 
—  he  will  talk  to  you." 

Suddenly  she  seized  my  hands  and  drew  me  down  to  her, 
and  then  held  me  away,  gazing  into  my  face  with  a  passionate 
questioning,  her  lips  smiling,  her  eyes  wet.  What  did  she 
see?  Was  there  a  subtler  relationship  between  our  natures 
than  I  guessed?  Did  she  understand  by  some  instinctive 
power  the  riddle  within  me?  divine  through  love  the  force 
that  was  driving  me  on  she  knew  not  whither,  nor  I  ?  At 
the  sound  of  my  father's  step  in  the  hall  she  released  me. 
He  came  in  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

"Well,  Hugh,  are  you  home?"  he  said.  .  .  . 

Never  had  I  been  more  impressed,  more  bewildered  by 
his  self-command  than  at  that  time.  Save  for  the  fact  that 
my  mother  talked  less  than  usual,  supper  passed  as  though 
nothing  had  happened.  Whether  I  had  shaken  him,  dis 
appointed  him,  or  gained  his  reluctant  approval  I  could  not 
tell.  Gradually  his  outward  calmness  turned  my  suspense 
to  irritation.  .  .  . 

But  when  at  length  we  were  alone  together,  I  gained  a 
certain  reassurance.  His  manner  was  not  severe.  He  hes 
itated  a  little  before  beginning. 

"  I  must  confess,  Hugh,  that  I  scarcely  know  what  to  say 
about  this  proceeding  of  yours.  The  thing  that  strikes  me 
most  forcibly  is  that  you  might  have  confided  in  your  mother 
and  myself." 

Hope  flashed  up  within  me,  like  an  explosion. 

"I  —  I  wanted  to  surprise  you,  father.  And  then,  you 
see,*I  thought  it  would  be  wiser  to  find  out  first  how  well  I 
was  likely  to  do  at  the  examinations." 

My  father  looked  at  me.  Unfortunately  he  possessed 
neither  a  sense  of  humour  nor  a  sense  of  tragedy  sufficient 
to 'meet  such  a  situation.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
beheld  him  at  a  disadvantage ;  for  I  had,  somehow,  managed 
at  length  to  force  him  out  of  position,  and  he  was  puzzled. 
I  was  quick  to  play  my  trump  card. 


78  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"  I  have  been  thinking  it  over  carefully,"  I  told  him,  "and 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  want  to  go  into  the 
law." 

"The  law  I"  he  exclaimed  sharply. 

"Why,  yes,  sir.  I  know  that  you  were  disappointed  be 
cause  I  did  not  do  sufficiently  well  at  school  to  go  to  college 
and  study  for  the  bar." 

I  felt  indeed  a  momentary  pang,  but  I  remembered  that  I 
was  fighting  for  my  freedom. 

"You  seemed  satisfied  where  you  were,"  he  said  in  a 
puzzled  voice,  "and  your  Cousin  Robert  gives  a  good  ac 
count  of  you." 

"I've  tried  to  do  the  work  as  well  as  I  could,  sir,"  I  replied. 
"  But  I  don't  like  the  grocery  business,  or  any  other  business. 
I  have  a  feeling  that  I'm  not  made  for  it." 

"And  you  think,  now,  that  you  are  made  for  the  law?" 
he  asked,  with  the  faint  hint  of  a  smile. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  believe  I  could  succeed  at  it.  I'd  like  to  try," 
I  replied  modestly. 

"You've  given  up  the  idiotic  notion  of  wishing  to  be  an 
author?" 

I  implied  that  he  himself  had  convinced  me  of  the  futility 
of  such  a  wish.  I  listened  to  his  next  words  as  in  a  dream. 

"I  must  confess  to  you,  Hugh,  that  there  are  times  when 
I  fail  to  understand  you.  I  hope  it  is  as  you  say,  that  you 
have  arrived  at  a  settled  conviction  as  to  your  future,  and 
that  this  is  not  another  of  those  caprices  to  which  you  have 
been  subject,  nor  a  desire  to  shirk  honest  work.  Mr.  Wood 
has  made  out  a  strong  case  for  you,  and  I  have  therefore  de 
termined  to  give  you  a  trial.  If  you  pass  the  examinations 
with  credit,  you  may  go  to  college,  but  if  at  any  time  you 
fail  to  make  good  progress,  you  come  home,  and  go  into 
business  again.  Is  that  thoroughly  understood?" 

I  said  it  was,  and  thanked  him  effusively.  ...  I  had 
escaped,  —  the  prison  doors  had  flown  open.  But  it  is 
written  that  every  happiness  has  its  sting;  and  my  joy, 
intense  though  it  was,  had  in  it  a  core  of  remorse.  .  .  . 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  79 

I  went  downstairs  to  my  mother,  who  was  sitting  in  the  hall 
by  the  open  door. 

"Father  says  I  may  go!"  I  said. 

She  got  up  and  took  me  in  her  arms. 

"My  dear,  I  am  so  glad,  although  we  shall  miss  you  dread 
fully.  .  .  .  Hugh?" 

"Yes,  mother." 

"Oh,  Hugh,  I  so  want  you  to  be  a  good  man !" 

Her  cry  was  a  little  incoherent,  but  fraught  with  a  meaning 
that  came  home  to  me,  in  spite  of  myself.  .  .  . 

A  while  later  I  ran  over  to  announce  to  the  amazed  Tom 
Peters  that  I  was  actually  going  to  Harvard  with  him.  He 
stood  in  the  half-lighted  hallway,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
blinking  at  me. 

"Hugh,  you're  a  wonder!"  he  cried.  ^" How  in  Jehosha- 
phat  did  you  work  it?"  .  .  . 

I  lay  long  awake  that  night  thinking  over  the  momentous 
change  so  soon  to  come  into  my  life,  wondering  exultantly 
what  Nancy  Willett  would  say  now.  I  was  not  one,  at  any 
rate,  to  be  despised  or  neglected. 


VI 

1 

THE  following  September  Tom  Peters  and  I  went  East 
together.  In  the  early  morning  Boston  broke  on  us  like  a 
Mecca  as  we  rolled  out  of  the  old  Albany  station,  joint  lords 
of  a  "herdic."  How  sharply  the  smell  of  the  salt-laden 
east  wind  and  its  penetrating  coolness  come  back  to  me !  I 
seek  in  vain  for  words  to  express  the  exhilarating  effect  of 
that  briny  coolness  on  my  imagination,  and  of  the  visions 
it  summoned  up  of  the  newer,  larger  life  into  which  I  had 
marvellously  been  transported.  We  alighted  at  the  Parker 
House,  full-fledged  men  of  the  world,  and  tried  to  act  as 
though  the  breakfast  of  which  we  partook  were  merely  an 
incident,  not  an  Event ;  as  though  we  were  Seniors,  and  not 
freshmen,  assuming  an  indifference  to  the  beings  by  whom 
we  were  surrounded  and  who  were  breakfasting,  too,  —  al 
though  the  nice-looking  ones  with  fresh  faces  and  trim 
clothes  were  all  undoubtedly  Olympians.  The  better  to  pro 
claim  our  nonchalance,  we  seated  ourselves  on  a  lounge  of 
the  marble-paved  lobby  and  smoked  cigarettes.  This  was 
liberty  indeed !  At  length  we  departed  for  Cambridge,  in 
another  herdic. 

Boston !  Could  it  be  possible  ?  Everything  was  so  differ 
ent  here  as  to  give  the  place  the  aspect  of  a  dream :  the 
Bulfinch  State  House,  the  decorous  shops,  the  still  more 
decorous  dwellings  with  the  purple-paned  windows  facing 
the  Common ;  Back  Bay,  still  boarded  up,  ivy-spread,  sug 
gestive  of  a  mysterious  and  delectable  existence.  We 
crossed  the  Charles  River,  blue-grey  and  still  that  morning ; 
traversed  a  nondescript  district,  and  at  last  found  ourselves 
gazing  out  of  the  windows  at  the  mellowed,  plum-coloured 
bricks  of  the  University  buildings.  .  .  .  All  at  once  our 

80 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  81 

exhilaration  evaporated  as  the  herdic  rumbled  into  a  side 
street  and  backed  up  before  the  door  of  a  not-too-inviting, 
three-storied  house  with  a  queer  extension  on  top.  Its  steps 
and  vestibule  were,  however,  immaculate.  The  bell  was 
answered  by  a  plainly  overworked  servant  girl,  of  whom  we 
inquired  for  Mrs.  Bolton,  our  landlady.  There  followed  a 
period  of  waiting  in  a  parlour  from  which  the  light  had  been 
almost  wholly  banished,  with  slippery  horsehair  furniture 
and  a  marble-topped  table;  and  Mrs.  Bolton,  when  she 
appeared,  dressed  in  rusty  black,  harmonized  perfectly  with 
the  funereal  gloom.  She  was  a  tall,  rawboned,  severe  lady 
with  a  peculiar  red-mottled  complexion  that  somehow 
reminded  one  of  the  outcropping  rocks  of  her  native  New 
England  soil. 

"You  want  to  see  your  rooms,  I  suppose,"  she  remarked 
impassively  when  we  had  introduced  ourselves,  and  as  we 
mounted  the  stairs  behind  her  Tom,  in  a  whisper,  nicknamed 
her  "Granite  Face."  Presently  she  left  us. 

"  Hospitable  soul ! "  said  Tom,  who,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  was  gazing  at  the  bare  walls  of  our  sitting-room. 
"  We'll  have  to  go  into  the  house-furnishing  business,  Hughie. 
I  vote  we  don't  linger  here  to-day  —  we'll  get  melancholia." 

Outside,  however,  the  sun  was  shining  brightly,  and  we 
departed  immediately  to  explore  Cambridge  and  announce 
our  important  presences  to  the  proper  authorities.  .  .  . 
We  went  into  Boston  to  dine.  ...  It  was  not  until  nine 
o'clock  in  the  evening  that  we  returned  and  the  bottom  sud 
denly  dropped  out  of  things.  He  who  has  tasted  that  first, 
acute  homesickness  of  college  will  know  what  I  mean.  It 
usually  comes  at  the  opening  of  one's  trunk.  The  sight  of 
the  top  tray  gave  me  a  pang  I  shall  never  forget.  I  would 
not  have  believed  that  I  loved  my  mother  so  much !  These 
articles  had  been  packed  by  her  hands;  and  in  one  corner, 
among  the  underclothes  on  which  she  had  neatly  sewed  my 
initials,  lay  the  new  Bible  she  had  bought.  "  Hugh  Moreton 
Paret,  from  his  Mother.  September,  1881."  I  took  it  up 
(Tom  was  not  looking)  and  tried  to  read  a  passage,  but  my 


82  ATFAR  COUNTRY 

eyes  were  blurred.  What  was  it  within  me  that  pressed 
and  pressed  until  I  thought  I  could  bear  the  pain  of  it  no 
longer  ?  I  pictured  the  sitting-room  at  home,  and  my  father 
and  mother  there,  thinking  of  me.  Yes,  I  must  acknowledge 
it ;  in  the  bitterness  of  that  moment  I  longed  to  be  back 
once  more  in  the  railed-off  space  on  the  floor  of  Breck  and 
Company,  writing  invoices.  .  .  . 

Presently,  as  we  went  on  silently  with  OUT  unpacking,  we 
became  aware  of  someone  in  the  doorway. 

"Hello,  you  fellows  1"  he  cried.  "We're  classmates,  I 
guess." 

We  turned  to  behold  an  ungainly  young  man  in  an  ill- 
fitting  blue  suit.  His  face  was  pimply,  his  eyes  a  Teutonic 
blue,  his  yellow  hair  rumpled,  his  naturally  large  mouth 
was  made  larger  by  a  friendly  grin. 

"I'm  Hermann  Krebs,"  he  announced  simply.     "Who  are 

you?" 

We  replied,  I  regret  to  say,  with  a  distinct  coolness  that 
did  not  seem  to  bother  him  in  the  least.  He  advanced  into 
the  room,  holding  out  a  large,  red,  and  serviceable  hand,  — 
evidently  it  had  never  dawned  on  him  that  there  was  such 
a  thing  in  the  world  as  snobbery.  But  Tom  and  I  had  been 
"coached"  by  Ralph  Hambleton  and  Perry  Blackwood, 
warned  to  be  careful  of  our  friendships.  There  was  a 
Reason !  In  any  case  Mr.  Krebs  would  not  have  appealed 
to  us.  In  answer  to  a  second  question  he  was  informed 
what  city  we  hailed  from,  and  he  proclaimed  himself  like 
wise  a  native  of  our  state. 

"Why,  I'm  from  Elkington !"  he  exclaimed,  as  though  the 
fact  sealed  our  future  relationships.  He  seated  himself  on 
Tom's  trunk  and  added:  "Welcome  to  old  Harvard!" 

We  felt  that  he  was  scarcely  qualified  to  speak  for  "old 
Harvard,"  but  we  did  not  say  so. 

"You  look  as  if  you'd  been  pall-bearers  for  somebody," 
was  his  next  observation. 

To  this  there  seemed  no  possible  reply. 

"You  fellows  are  pretty  well  fixed  here,"  he  went  on, 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  83 

undismayed,  gazing  about  a  room  which  had  seemed  to  us 
the  abomination  of  desolation.  "Your  folks  must  be  rich. 
I'm  up  under  the  skylight." 

Even  this  failed  to  touch  us.  His  father  —  he  told  us 
with  undiminished  candour  —  had  been  a  German  emigrant 
who  had  come  over  in  '49,  after  the  cause  of  liberty  had  been 
lost  in  the  old  country,  and  made  eye-glasses  and  opera- 
glasses.  There  hadn't  been  a  fortune  in  it.  He,  Hermann, 
had  worked  at  various  occupations  in  the  summer  time,  from 
peddling  to  farming,  until  he  had  saved  enough  to  start 
him  at  Harvard.  Tom,  who  had  been  bending  over  his 
bureau  drawer,  straightened  up. 

"What  did  you  want  to  come  here  for?"  he  demanded. 

"Say,  what  did  you?"  Mr.  Krebs  retorted  genially.  "To 
get  an  education,  of  course." 

"An  education!"  echoed  Tom. 

"Isn't  Harvard  the  oldest  and  best  seat  of  learning  in 
America?"  There  was  an  exaltation  in  Krebs's  voice 
that  arrested  my  attention,  and  made  me  look  at  him  again. 
A  troubled  chord  had  been  struck  within  me. 

"Sure,"  said  Tom. 

"What  did  you  come  for?"  Mr.  Krebs  persisted. 

"To  sow  my  wild  oats,"  said  Tom.  "I  expect  to  have 
something  of  a  crop,  too." 

For  some  reason  I  could  not  fathom,  it  suddenly  seemed 
to  dawn  on  Mr.  Krebs,  as  a  result  of  this  statement,  that 
he  wasn't  wanted. 

"Well,  so  long,"  he  said,  with  a  new  dignity  that  curiously 
belied  the  informality  of  his  farewell. 

An  interval  of  silence  followed  his  departure. 

"Well,  he's  got  a  crust!"  said  Tom,  at  last. 

My  own  feeling  about  Mr.  Krebs  had  become  more  com 
plicated;  but  I  took  my  cue  from  Tom,  who  dealt  with 
situations  simply. 

"  He'll  come  in  for  a  few  knockouts,"  he  declared.  "  Here's 
to  old  Harvard,  the  greatest  institution  of  learning  in 
America!  Oh,  gee  1" 


84  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Our  visitor,  at  least,  made  us  temporarily  forget  our 
homesickness,  but  it  returned  with  redoubled  intensity 
when  we  had  put  out  the  lights  and  gone  to  bed. 


Before  we  had  left  home  it  had  been  mildly  hinted  to  us 
by  Ralph  and  Perry  Blackwood  that  scholarly  eminence 
was  not  absolutely  necessary  to  one's  welfare  and  happiness 
at  Cambridge.  The  hint  had  been  somewhat  superfluous; 
but  the  question  remained,  what  was  necessary?  With  a 
view  of  getting  some  light  on  this  delicate  subject  we  paid 
a  visit  the  next  evening  to  our  former  friends  and  school 
mates,  whose  advice  was  conveyed  with  a  masterly  cir 
cumlocution  that  impressed  us  both.  There  are  some  things 
that  may  not  be  discussed  directly,  and  the  conduct  of 
life  at  a  modern  university  —  which  is  a  reflection  of  life  in 
the  greater  world  —  is  one  of  these.  Perry  Blackwood  and 
Ham  did  most  of  the  talking,  while  Ralph,  characteristically, 
lay  at  full  length  on  the  window-seat,  interrupting  with  an 
occasional  terse  and  cynical  remark  very  much  to  the  point. 
As  a  sophomore,  he  in  particular  seemed  lifted  immeasurably 
above  us,  for  he  was  —  as  might  have  been  expected  —  al 
ready  a  marked  man  in  his  class.  The  rooms  which  he  shared 
with  his  cousin  made  a  tremendous  impression  on  Tom  and 
me,  and  seemed  palatial  in  comparison  to  our  quarters  at 
Mrs.  Bolton's,  eloquent  of  the  freedom  and  luxury  of 
undergraduate  existence;  their  note,  perhaps,  was  struck 
by  the  profusion  of  gay  sofa  pillows,  then  something  of  an 
innovation.  The  heavy,  expensive  furniture  was  of  a  pattern 
new  to  me ;  and  on  the  mantel  were  three  or  four  photographs 
of  ladies  in  the  alluring  costume  of  the  musical  stage,  in 
which  Tom  evinced  a  particular  interest. 

"Did  grandfather  send  'em?"  he  inquired. 

"They're  Ham's,"  said  Ralph,  and  he  contrived  somehow 
to  get  into  those  two  words  an  epitome  of  his  cousin's  char 
acter.  Ham  was  stouter,  and  his  clothes  were  more  strik- 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  85 

ing,  more  obviously  expensive  than  ever.  ...  On  our  way 
homeward,  after  we  had  walked  a  block  or  two  in  silence, 
Tom  exclaimed :  — 

"  Don't  make  friends  with  the  friendless !  —  eh,  Hughie  ? 
We  knew  enough  to  begin  all  right,  didn't  we?"  .  .  . 


Have  I  made  us  out  a  pair  of  deliberate,  calculating  snobs  ? 
Well,  after  all  it  must  be  remembered  that  our  bringing  up 
had  not  been  of  sufficient  liberality  to  include  the  Krebses  of 
this  world.  We  did  not,  indeed,  spend  much  time  in  choos^ 
ing  and  weighing  those  whom  we  should  know  and  those  whom 
we  should  avoid ;  and  before  the  first  term  of  that  Freshman 
year  was  over  Tom  had  become  a  favourite.  He  had  the 
gift  of  making  men  feel  that  he  delighted  in  their  society, 
that  he  wished  for  nothing  better  than  to  sit  for  hours  in  their 
company,  content  to  listen  to  the  arguments  that  raged  about 
him.  Once  in  a  while  he  would  make  a  droll  observation 
that  was  greeted  with  fits  of  laughter.  He  was  always  re 
ferred  to  as  "old  Tom,"  or  "good  old  Tom";  presently, 
when  he  began  to  pick  out  chords  on  the  banjo,  it  was  dis 
covered  that  he  had  a  good  tenor  voice,  though  he  could 
not  always  be  induced  to  sing.  .  .  .  Somewhat  to  the 
jeopardy  of  the  academic  standard  that  my  father  expected 
me  to  sustain,  our  rooms  became  a  rendezvous  for  many 
clubable  souls  whose  maudlin,  midnight  attempts  at  harmony 
often  set  the  cocks  crowing. 

"  Free  from  care  and  despair, 
What  care  we  ? 
"Ti3  wine,  'tis  wine 
That  makes  the  jollity." 

As  a  matter  of  truth,  on  these  occasions  it  was  more 
often  beer ;  beer  transported  thither  in  Tom's  new  valise, 
—  given  him  by  his  mother,  —  and  stuffed  with  snow 
to  keep  the  bottles  cold.  Sometimes  Granite  Face,  adorned 


86  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

in  a  sky-blue  wrapper,  would  suddenly  appear  in  the  door 
way  to  declare  that  we  were  a  disgrace  to  her  respectable 
house:  the  university  authorities  should  be  informed,  etc., 
etc.  Poor  woman,  we  were  outrageously  inconsiderate 
of  her.  .  .  .  One  evening  as  we  came  through  the  hall  we 
caught  a  glimpse  in  the  dimly  lighted  parlour  of  a  young 
man  holding  a  shy  and  pale  little  girl  on  his  lap,  —  Annie, 
Mrs.  Bolton's  daughter :  on  the  face  of  our  landlady  was  an 
expression  I  had  never  seen  there,  like  a  light.  I  should 
scarcely  have  known  her.  Tom*and  I  paused  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs.  He  clutched  my  arm. 

"Darned  if  it  wasn't  our  friend  Krebs!"  he  whispered. 

•     •     • 

While  I  was  by  no  means  so  popular  as  Tom,  I  got  along 
fairly  well.  I  had  escaped  from  provincialism,  from  the 
obscure  purgatory  of  the  wholesale  grocery  business ;  new 
vistas,  exciting  and  stimulating,  had  been  opened  up;  nor 
did  I  offend  the  sensibilities  and  prejudices  of  the  new  friends 
I  made,  but  gave  a  hearty  consent  to  a  code  I  found  congenial. 
I  recognized  in  the  social  system  of  undergraduate  life  at 
Harvard  a  reflection  of  that  of  a  greater  world  where  I 
hoped  some  day  to  shine;  yet  my  ambition  did  not  prey 
upon  me.  Mere  conformity,  however,  would  not  have 
taken  me  very  far  in  a  sphere  from  which  I,  in  common  with 
many  others,  desired  not  to  be  excluded.  .  .  .  One  day, 
in  an  idle  but  inspired  moment,  I  paraphrased  a  song 
from  "  Pinafore,"  applying  it  to  a  college  embroglio,  and  the 
brief  and  lively  vogue  it  enjoyed  was  sufficient  to  indicate 
a  future  usefulness.  I  had  "found  myself."  This  was  in 
the  last  part  of  the  freshman  year,  and  later  on  I  became  a 
sort  of  amateur,  class  poet-laureate.  Many  were  the  skits 
I  composed,  and  Tom  sang  them.  .  .  . 

During  that  freshman  year  we  often  encountered  Hermann 
Krebs,  whistling  merrily,  on  the  stairs. 

"Got  your  themes  done?"  he  would  inquire  cheerfully. 

And  Tom  would  always  mutter,  when  he  was  out  of  ear 
shot  :  — 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  87 

F  "He  has  got  a  crust!" 

When  I  thought  about  Krebs  at  all,  —  and  this  was  seldom 
indeed,  —  his  manifest  happiness  puzzled  me.  Our  cool 
politeness  did  not  seem  to  bother  him  in  the  least;  on 
the  contrary,  I  got  the  impression  that  it  amused  him. 
He  seemed  to  have  made  no  friends.  And  after  that  first 
evening,  memorable  for  its  homesickness,  he  never  ventured 
to  repeat  his  visit  to  us. 

One  windy  November  day  I  spied  his  somewhat  ludicrous 
figure  striding  ahead  of  me,  his  trousers  above  his  ankles. 
I  was  bundled  up  in  a  new  ulster,  —  of  which  I  was  secretly 
quite  proud,  —  but  he  wore  no  overcoat  at  all. 

"Well,  how  are  you  getting  along?"  I  asked,  as  I  overtook 
him. 

He  made  clear,  as  he  turned,  his  surprise  that  I  should  have 
addressed  him  at  all,  but  immediately  recovered  himself. 

"Oh,  fine,"  he  responded.  "I've  had  better  luck  than 
I  expected.  I'm  correspondent  for  two  or  three  newspapers. 
I  began  by  washing  windows,  and  doing  odd  jobs  for  the 
professors'  wives."  He  laughed.  "I  guess  that  doesn't 
strike  you  as  good  luck." 

He  showed  no  resentment  at  my  patronage,  but  a  self- 
sufficiency  that  made  my  sympathy  seem  superfluous,  giving 
the  impression  of  an  inner  harmony  and  content  that  sur 
prised  me. 

"I  needn't  ask  how  you're  getting  along,"  he  said.  .  .  . 

At  the  end  of  the  freshman  year  we  abandoned  Mrs. 
Bolton's  for  more  desirable  quarters. 


I  shall  not  go  deeply  into  my  college  career,  recalling  only 
such  incidents  as,  seen  in  the  retrospect,  appear  to  have  had 
significance.  I  have  mentioned  my  knack  for  song-writing ; 
but  it  was  not,  I  think,  until  my  junior  year  there  was 
startlingly  renewed  in  me  my  youthful  desire  to  write,  to 
create  something  worth  while,  that  had  so  long  been  dormant. 


88  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

The  inspiration  came  from  Alonzo  Cheyne,  instructor  m 
English ;  a  remarkable  teacher,  in  spite  of  the  finicky  manner 
isms  which  Tom  imitated.  And  when,  in  reading  aloud 
certain  magnificent  passages,  he  forgot  his  affectations,  he 
managed  to  arouse  cravings  I  thought  to  have  deserted  me 
forever.  Was  it  possible,  after  all,  that  I  had  been  right  and 
my  father  wrong?  that  I  might  yet  be  great  in  literature? 

A  mere  hint  from  Alonzo  Cheyne  was  more  highly  prized  by 
the  grinds  than  fulsome  praise  from  another  teacher.  And  to 
his  credit  it  should  be  recorded  that  the  grinds  were  the  only 
ones  he  treated  with  any  seriousness ;  he  took  pains  to  answer 
their  questions ;  but  towards  the  rest  of  us,  the  Chosen,  he 
showed  a  thinly  veiled  contempt.  None  so  quick  as  he  to 
detect  a  simulated  interest,  or  a  wily  effort  to  make  him 
ridiculous;  and  few  tried  this  a  second  time,  for  he  had  a 
rapier-like  gift  of  repartee  that  transfixed  the  offender  like 
a  moth  on  a  pin.  He  had  a  way  of  eyeing  me  at  times,  his 
glasses  in  his  hand,  a  queer  smile  on  his  lips,  as  much  as  to 
imply  that  there  was  one  at  least  among  the  lost  who  was 
made  for  better  things.  Not  that  my  work  was  poor,  but  I 
knew  that  it  might  have  been  better.  Out  of  his  classes, 
however,  beyond  the  immediate,  disturbing  influence  of  his 
personality  I  would  relapse  into  indifference.  .  .  . 

Returning  one  evening  to  our  quarters,  which  were  now 
in  the  "Yard,"  I  found  Tom  seated  with  a  blank  sheet  be 
fore  him,  thrusting  his  hand  through  his  hair  and  biting  the 
end  of  his  penholder  to  a  pulp.  In  his  muttering,  which 
was  mixed  with  the  curious,  stingless  profanity  of  which  he 
was  master,  I  caught  the  name  of  Cheyne,  and  I  knew  that 
he  was  facing  the  crisis  of  a  fortnightly  theme.  The  subject 
assigned  was  a  narrative  of  some  personal  experience,  and 
it  was  to  be  handed  in  on  the  morrow.  My  own  theme  was 
already  written. 

"I've  been  holding  down  this  chair  for  an  hour,  and  I 
can't  seem  to  think  of  a  thing."  He  rose  to  fling  himself 
down  on  the  lounge.  "  I  wish  I  was  in  Canada." 

"Why  Canada?" 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  89 

"Trout  fishing  with  Uncle  Jake  at  that  club  of  his  where 
he  took  me  last  summer."  Tom  gazed  dreamily  at  the 
ceiling.  "Whenever  I  have  some  darned  foolish  theme  like 
this  to^write  I  want  to  go  fishing,  and  I  want  to  go  like  the 
devil.  I'll  get  Uncle  Jake  to  take  you,  too,  next  summer." 

"I  wish  you  would." 

$  "Say,  that's  living  all  right,  Hughie,  up  there  among  the 
tamaracks  and  balsams!"  And  he  began,  for  something 
like  the  thirtieth  time,  to  relate  the  adventures  of  the  trip. 
...  As  he  talked,  the  idea  presented  itself  to  me  with  sudden 
fascination  to  use  this  incident  as  the  subject  of  Tom's  theme ; 
to  write  it  for  him,  from  his  point  of  view,  imitating  the  droll 
style  he  would  have  had  if  he  had  been  able  to  write;  for, 
when  he  was  interested  in  any  matter,  his  oral  narrative 
did  not  lack  vividness.  I  began  to  ask  him  questions: 
what  were  the  trees  like,  for  instance  ?  How  did  the  French- 
Canadian  guides  talk  ?  He  had  the  gift  of  mimicry :  aided 
by  a  partial  knowledge  of  French  I  wrote  down  a  few  sen 
tences  as  they  sounded.  The  canoe  had  upset  and  he  had 
come  near  drowning.  I  made  him  describe  his  sensations. 

"  I'll  write  your  theme  for  you,"  I  exclaimed,  when  he  had 
finished. 

"Gee,  not  about  that!" 

"Why  not?    It's  a  personal  experience." 

His  gratitude  was  pathetic.  .  .  .  By  this  time  I  was  so 
full  of  the  subject  that  it  fairly  clamoured  for  expression, 
and  as  I  wrote  the  hours  flew.  Once  in  a  while  I  paused  to 
ask  him  a  question  as  he  sat  with  his  chair  tilted  back  and 
his  feet  on  the  table,  reading  a  detective  story.  I  sketched 
in  the  scene  with  bold  strokes ;  the  desolate  bois  brule  on  the 
mountain  side,  the  polished  crystal  surface  of  the  pool  broken 
here  and  there  with  the  circles  left  by  rising  fish ;  I  pictured 
Armand,  the  guide,  his  pipe  between  his  teeth,  holding  the 
canoe  against  the  current ;  and  I  seemed  to  smell  the  sharp 
tang  of  the  balsams,  to  hear  the  roar  of  the  rapids  below. 
Then  came  the  sudden  hooking  of  the  big  trout,  habitant 
oaths  from  Armand,  bouleversement,  wetness,  darkness,  con- 


90  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

fusion;  a  half-strangled  feeling,  a  brief  glimpse  of  green 
things  and  sunlight,  and  then  strangulation,  or  what  seemed 
like  it ;  strangulation,  the  sense  of  being  picked  up  and  hurled 
by  a  terrific  force  —  whither  ?  a  blinding  whiteness,  in  which 
it  was  impossible  to  breathe,  one  sharp,  almost  unbearable 
pain,  then  another,  then  oblivion.  .  .  .  Finally,  awaken 
ing,  to  be  confronted  by  a  much  worried  Uncle  Jake. 

By  this  time  the  detective  story  had  fallen  to  the  floor, 
and  Tom  was  huddled  up  in  his  chair,  asleep.  He  arose 
obediently  and  wrapped  a  wet  towel  around  his  head, 
and  began  to  write.  Once  he  paused  long  enough  to 
mutter :  — 

"Yes,  that's  about  it,  —  that's  the  way  I  felt  I"  and  set 
to  work  again,  mechanically,  —  all  the  praise  I  got  for  what 
I  deemed  a  literary  achievement  of  the  highest  order !  At 
three  o'clock,  A.  M.,  he  finished,  pulled  off  his  clothes  automat 
ically  and  tumbled  into  bed.  I  had  no  desire  for  sleep.  My 
brain  was  racing  madly,  like  an  engine  without  a  governor. 
I  could  write !  I  could  write !  I  repeated  the  words  over 
and  over  to  myself.  All  the  complexities  of  my  present 
life  were  blotted  out,  and  I  beheld  only  the  long,  sweet 
vista  of  the  career  for  which  I  was  now  convinced  that  nature 
had  intended  me.  My  immediate  fortunes  became  unim 
portant,  immaterial.  No  juice  of  the  grape  I  had  ever 
tasted  made  me  half  so  drunk.  .  .  .  With  the  morning, 
of  course,  came  the  reaction,  and  I  suffered  the  after  sensa 
tions  of  an  orgie,  awaking  to  a  world  of  necessity,  cold  and 
grey  and  slushy,  and  necessity  alone  made  me  rise  from  my 
bed.  My  experience  of  the  night  before  might  have  taught 
me  that  happiness  lies  in  the  trick  of  transforming  necessity, 
but  it  did  not.  The  vision  had  faded,  —  temporarily,  at 
least;  and  such  was  the  distraction  of  the  succeeding  days 
that  the  subject  of  the  theme  passed  from  my  mind.  .  .  . 

One  morning  Tom  was  later  than  usual  in  getting  home. 
I  was  writing  a  letter  when  he  came  in,  and  did  not  notice 
him,  yet  I  was  vaguely  aware  of  his  standing  over  me.  When 
at  last  I  looked  up  I  gathered  from  his  expression  that  some- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  91 

thing  serious  had  happened,  so  mournful  was  his  face,  and 
yet  so  utterly  ludicrous. 

"Say,  Hugh,  I'm  in  the  deuce  of  a  mess,"  he  announced. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  inquired. 

He  sank  down  on  the  table  with  a  groan. 

"It's  Alonzo,"  he  said. 

Then  I  remembered  the  theme. 

"  What  —  what's  he  done  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"He  says  I  must  become  a  writer.  Think  of  it,  me  a 
writer!  He  says  I'm  a  young  Shakespeare,  that  I've  been 
lazy  and  hid  my  light  under  a  bushel !  He  says  he  knows 
now  what  I  can  do,  and  if  I  don't  keep  up  the  quality,  he'll 
know  the  reason  why,  and  write  a  personal  letter  to  my 
father.  Oh,  hell!" 

In  spite  of  his  evident  anguish,  I  was  seized  with  a  con 
vulsive  laughter.  Tom  stood  staring  at  me  moodily. 

"  You  think  it's  funny,  —  don't  you  ?  I  guess  it  is,  — 
but  what's  going  to  become  of  me  ?  That's  what  I  want  to 
know.  I've  been  in  trouble  before,  but  never  in  any  like 
this.  And  who  got  me  into  it?  You!" 

Here  was  gratitude ! 

"  You  've  got  to  go  on  writing  'em,  now."    His  voice  became 
desperately  pleading.     "Say,  Hugh,  old  man,  you  can  tem 
per  'em  down  —  temper  'em  down  gradually.     And  by  the 
end  of  the  year,  let's  say,  they'll  be  about  normal  again." 
^iHe  seemed  actually  shivering. 

"  The  end  of  the  year  1 "  I  cried,  the  predicament  striking 
me  for  the  first  time  in  its  fulness.     "Say,  you've  got  a, 
crust!" 

"You'll  do  it,  if  I  have  to  hold  a  gun  over  you,"  he  an-^ 
nounced  grimly. 

Mingled  with  my  anxiety,  which  was  real,  was  an  exulta 
tion  that  would  not  down.  Nevertheless,  the  idea  of  develop 
ing  Tom  into  a  Shakespeare,  —  Tom,  who  had  not  the 
slightest  desire  to  be  one !  —  was  appalling,  besides  having 
in  it  an  element  of  useless  self-sacrifice  from  which  I  recoiled. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  Alonzo  should  discover  that  I  had 


92  A  FAR  COUNTRY7 

written  his  theme,  there  were  penalties  I  did  not  care  to 
dwell  upon.  .  .  .  With  such  a  cloud  hanging  over  me  I 
passed  a  restless  night. 

As  luck  would  have  it  the  very  next  evening  in  the  level 
light  under  the  elms  of  the  Square  I  beheld  sauntering  to 
wards  me  a  dapper  figure  which  I  recognized  as  that  of  Mr. 
Cheyne  himself.  As  I  saluted  him  he  gave  me  an  amused 
and  most  disconcerting  glance ;  and  when  I  was  congratulat 
ing  myself  that  he  had  passed  me  he  stopped. 

"Fine  weather  for  March,  Paret,"  he  observed. 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  agreed  in  a  strange  voice. 

"By  the  way,"  he  remarked,  contemplating  the  bare 
branches  above  our  heads,  "  that  was  an  excellent  theme  your 
roommate  handed  in.  I  had  no  idea  that  he  possessed  such 
—  such  genius.  Did  you,  by  any  chance,  happen  to  read  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  —  I  read  it." 

"Weren't  you  surprised?"  inquired  Mr.  Cheyne. 

"  Well,  yes,  sir  —  that  is  —  I  mean  to  say  he  talks  just 
like  that,  sometimes  —  that  is,  when  it's  anything  he  cares 
about." 

"Indeed!"  said  Mr.  Cheyne.  "That's  interesting,  most 
interesting.  In  all  my  experience,  I  do  not  remember  a  case 
in  which  a  gift  has  been  developed  so  rapidly.  I  don't 
want  to  give  the  impression  —  ah  —  that  there  is  no  room 
for  improvement,  but  the  thing  was  very  well  done,  for  an 
undergraduate.  I  must  confess  I  never  should  have  sus 
pected  it  in  Peters,  and  it's  most  interesting  what  you  say 
about  his  cleverness  in  conversation."  He  twirled  the  head  of 
his  stick,  apparently  lost  in  reflection.  "  I  may  be  wrong,"  he 
went  on  presently,  "  I  have  an  idea  it  is  you  —  I  must 
literally  have  jumped  away  from  him.  He  paused  a  moment, 
without  apparently  noticing  my  panic,  "that  it  is  you  who 
have  influenced  Peters." 

"I,  sir?" 

"I  am  wrong,  then.  Or  is  this  merely  commendable 
modesty  on  your  part?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  93 

"Then  my  hypothesis  falls  to  the  ground.  I  had  greatly 
hoped,"  he  added  meaningly,  "that  you  might  be  able  to 
throw  some  light  on  this  mystery." 

I  was  dumb. 

"Paret,"  he  asked,  "have  you  time  to  come  over  to  my 
rooms  for  a  few  minutes  this  evening?" 

"Certainly,  sir." 

He  gave  me  his  number  in  Brattle  Street.  .  .  . 

Like  one  running  in  a  nightmare  and  making  no  progress 
I  made  my  way  home,  only  to  learn  from  Hallam,  —  who 
lived  on  the  same  floor,  —  that  Tom  had  inconsiderately 
gone  to  Boston  for  the  evening,  with  four  other  weary  spirits 
in  search  of  relaxation  I  Avoiding  our  club  table,  I  took 
what  little  nourishment  I  could  at  a  modest  restaurant,  and 
restlessly  paced  the  moonlit  streets  until  eight  o'clock,  when 
I  found  myself  in  front  of  one  of  those  low-gabled  colonial 
houses  which,  on  less  soul-shaking  occasions,  had  exercised  a 
great  charm  on  my  imagination.  My  hand  hung  for  an  instant 
over  the  bell.  ...  I  must  have  rung  it  violently,  for  there 
appeared  almost  immediately  an  old  lady  in  a  lace  cap,  who 
greeted  me  with  gentle  courtesy,  and  knocked  at  a  little  door 
with  glistening  panels.  The  latch  was  lifted  by  Mr.  Cheyne 
himself. 

>» -  "  Come  in,  Paret,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  was  unexpectedly 
hospitable. 

I  have  rarely  seen  a  more  inviting  room.  A  wood  fire 
burned  brightly  on  the  brass  andirons,  flinging  its  glare  on  the 
big,  white  beam  that  crossed  the  ceiling,  and  reddening  the 
square  panes  of  the  windows  in  their  panelled  recesses.  Be 
tween  these  were  rows  of  books,  —  attractive  books  in  chased 
bindings,  red  and  blue ;  books  that  appealed  to  be  taken 
down  and  read.  There  was  a  table  covered  with  reviews  and 
magazines  in  neat  piles,  and  a  lamp  so  shaded  as  to  throw  its 
light  only  on  the  white  blotter  of  the  pad.  Two  easy  chairs, 
covered  with  flowered  chintz,  were  ranged  before  the  fire,  in 
one  of  which  I  sank,  much  bewildered,  upon  being  urged  to 
do  so. 


94  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

I  utterly  failed  to  recognize  "Alonzo"  in  this  new  atmos 
phere.  And  he  had,  moreover,  dropped  the  subtly  sarcastic 
manner  I  was  wont  to  associate  with  him. 

"Jolly  old  house,  isn't  it?"  he  observed,  as  though  I  had 
casually  dropped  in  on  him  for  a  chat ;  and  he  stood,  with 
his  hands  behind  him  stretched  to  the  blaze,  looking  down 
at  me.  "It  was  built  by  a  certain  Colonel  Draper,  who 
fought  at  Louisburg,  and  afterwards  fled  to  England  at  the 
time  of  the  Revolution.  He  couldn't  stand  the  patriots,  — 
I'm  not  so  sure  that  I  blame  him,  either.  Are  you  interested 
in  colonial  things,  Mr.  Paret?" 

I  said  I  was.  If  the  question  had  concerned  Aztec  relics 
my  answer  would  undoubtedly  have  been  the  same.  And 
I  watched  him,  dazedly,  while  he  took  down  a  silver  porringer 
from  the  shallow  mantel  shelf. 

"It's  not  a  Revere,"  he  said,  in  a  slightly  apologetic  tone 
as  though  to  forestall  a  comment,  "but  it's  rather  good,  I 
think.  I  picked  it  up  at  a  sale  in  Dorchester.  But  I  have 
never  been  able  to  identify  the  coat  of  arms." 

He  showed  me  a  ladle,  with  the  names  of  "Patience  and 
William  Simpson "  engraved  quaintly  thereon,  and  took 
down  other  articles  in  which  I  managed  to  feign  an  interest. 
Finally  he  seated  himself  in  the  chair  opposite,  crossed  his 
feet,  putting  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together  and  gazing  into 
the  fire. 

"  So  you  thought  you  could  fool  me,"  he  said,  at  length. 

I  became  aware  of  the  ticking  of  a  great  clock  in  the  corner. 
My  mouth  was  dry. 

|  "I  am  going  to  forgive  you,"  he  went  on,  more  gravely, 
'  "for  several  reasons.  I  don't  flatter,  as  you  know.  It's 
because  you  carried  out  the  thing  so  perfectly  that  I  am  led 
to  think  you  have  a  gift  that  may  be  cultivated,  Paret.  You 
wrote  that  theme  in  the  way  Peters  would  have  written  it  if 
he  had  not  been  —  what  shall  I  say  ?  —  scripturally  inarticu 
late.  And  I  trust  it  may  do  you  some  good  if  I  say  it  was 
something  of  a  literary  achievement,  if  not  a  moral  one." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  I  faltered. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  95 

"Have  you  ever,"  he  inquired,  lapsing  a  little  into  his 
lecture-room  manner,  "seriously  thought  of  literature  as  a 
career  ?  Have  you  ever  thought  of  any  career  seriously  ?  " 

"I  once  wished  to  be  a  writer,  sir,"  I  replied  tremulously, 
but  refrained  from  telling  him  of  my  father's  opinion  of  the 
profession.  Ambition  —  a  purer  ambition  than  I  had  known 
for  years  —  leaped  within  me  at  his  words.  He,  Alonzo 
Cheyne,  had  detected  in  me  the  Promethean  fire ! 

I  sat  there  until  ten  o'clock  talking  to  the  real  Mr.  Cheyne, 
a  human  Mr.  Cheyne  unknown  in  the  lecture-room.  Nor 
had  I  suspected  one  in  whom  cynicism  and  distrust  of  under 
graduates  (of  my  sort)  seemed  so  ingrained,  of  such  idealism. 
He  did  not  pour  it  out  in  preaching;  delicately,  unobtru 
sively  and  on  the  whole  rather  humorously  he  managed  to 
present  to  me  in  a  most  disillusionizing  light  that  conception 
of  the  university  held  by  me  and  my  intimate  associates. 
After  I  had  left  him  I  walked  the  quiet  streets  to  behold  as 
through  dissolving  mists  another  Harvard,  and  there  trembled 
in  my  soul  like  the  birth-struggle  of  a  flame  something  of  the 
vision  later  to  be  immortalized  by  St.  Gaudens,  the  spirit  of 
Harvard  responding  to  the  spirit  of  the  Republic  —  to  the 
call  of  Lincoln,  who  voiced  it.  The  place  of  that  bronze  at 
the  corner  of  Boston  Common  was  as  yet  empty,  but  I 
have  since  stood  before  it  to  gaze  in  wonder  at  the  light 
shining  in  darkness  on  mute,  uplifted  faces  —  black  faces ! 
at  Harvard's  son  leading  them  on  that  the  light  might  live 
and  prevail. 

I,  too,  longed  for  a  Cause  into  which  I  might  fling  myself, 
in  which  I  might  lose  myself.  .  .  I  halted  on  the  sidewalk 
to  find  myself  staring  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  at  a 
familiar  house,  my  old  landlady's,  Mrs.  Bolton's,  and  sum 
moned  up  before  me  was  the  tired,  smiling  face  of  Hermann 
Krebs.  Was  it  because  when  he  had  once  spoken  so  crudely 
of  the  University  I  had  seen  the  reflection  of  her  spirit  in  his 
eyes  ?  A  light  still  burned  in  the  extension  roof  —  Krebs's 
light;  another  shone  dimly  through  the  ground  glass  of  the 
front  door.  Obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  I  crossed  the  street. 


96  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Mrs.  Bolton,  in  the  sky-blue  wrapper,  and  looking  more  for* 
bidding  than  ever,  answered  the  bell.  Life  had  taught  her  to 
be  indifferent  to  surprises,  and  it  was  I  who  became  abruptly 
embarrassed. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mr.  Paret,"  she  said,  as  though  I  had  been 
a  frequent  caller.  I  had  never  once  darkened  her  threshold 
since  I  had  left  her  house. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  and  hesitated.  ...  "Is  Mr.  Krebs 
in?" 

"Well,"  she  replied  in  a  lifeless  tone,  which  nevertheless 
had  in  it  a  touch  of  bitterness,  "  I  guess  there's  no  reason  why 
you  and  your  friends  should  have  known  he  was  sick." 

"  Sick ! "  I  repeated.     "  Is  he  very  sick  ?  " 

"I  calculate  he'll  pull  through,"  she  said.  "Sunday  the 
doctor  gave  him  up.  And  no  wonder!  He  hasn't  had  any 
proper  food  since  he's  be'n  here!"  She  paused,  eyeing  me. 
"If  you'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Paret,  I  was  just  going  up  to  him 
when  you  rang." 

"Certainly,"  I  replied  awkwardly.  "Would  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  tell  him  —  when  he's  well  enough  —  that  I  came 
to  see  him,  and  that  I'm  sorry?" 

There  was  another  pause,  and  she  stood  with  a  hand  de 
fensively  clutching  the  knob. 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  him,"  she  said. 

With  a  sense  of  having  been  baffled,  I  turned  away. 


«. 

Walking  back  toward  the  Yard  my  attention  was  attracted 
by  a  slowly  approaching  cab  whose  occupants  were  disturb 
ing  the  quiet  of  the  night  with  song. 

"  Shollity  —  'tis  wine,  'tis  wine, 
That  makesh  —  shollity." 

The  vehicle  drew  up  in  front  of  a  new  and  commodious 
building,  —  I  believe  the  first  of  those  designed  to  house 
undergraduates  who  were  willing  to  pay  for  private  bath- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  97 

rooms  and  other  modern  luxuries;  out  of  one  window  of 
the  cab  protruded  a  pair  of  shoeless  feet,  out  of  the  other  a 
hatless  head  I  recognized  as  belonging  to  Tom  Peters; 
hence  I  surmised  that  the  feet  were  his  also.  The  driver 
got  down  from  the  box,  and  a  lively  argument  was  begun 
inside  —  for  there  were  other  occupants  —  as  to  how  Mr. 
Peters  was  to  be  disembarked;  and  I  gathered  from  his 
frequent  references  to  the  "Shgyptian  obelisk"  that  the 
engineering  problem  presented  struck  him  as  similar  to  the 
unloading  of  Cleopatra's  Needle. 

"  Careful,  careful ! "  he  cautioned,  as  certain  expelling 
movements  began  from  within,  "Easy,  Ham,  you  jamfool, 
keep  the  door  shut,  y'll  break  me." 

"  Now,  Jerry,  all  heave  sh'gether ! "  exclaimed  a  voice  from 
the  blackness  of  the  interior. 

"Will  ye  wait  a  minute,  Mr.  Durrett,  sir?"  implored  the 
cab  driver.  "  You'll  be  after  ruining  me  cab  entirely."  (Loud 
roars  and  vigorous  resistance  from  the  obelisk,  the  cab  rock 
ing  violently.)  "This  gintleman"  (meaning  me)  "will  have 
him  by  the  head,  and  I'll  get  hold  of  his  feet,  sir."  Which 
he  did,  after  a  severe  kick  in  the  stomach. 

"Head'sh  all  right,  Martin." 

"To  be  sure  it  is,  Mr.  Peters.  Now  will  ye  rest  aisy 
awhile,  sir?" 

"  I'm  axphyxiated,"  cried  another  voice  from  the  darkness, 
the  muffled  voice  of  Jerome  Kyme,  our  classmate. 

"Get  the  tackles  under  him!"  came  forth  in  commanding 
tones  from  Conybear. 

In  the  meantime  many  windows  had  been  raised  and 
much  gratuitous  advice  was  being  given.  The  three  occu 
pants  of  the  cab's  seat  who  had  previously  clamoured  for  Mr. 
Peters'  removal,  now  inconsistently  resisted  it;  suddenly 
he  came  out  with  a  jerk,  and  we  had  him  fairly  upright  on 
the  pavement  minus  a  collar  and  tie  and  the  buttons  of  his 
evening  waistcoat.  Those  who  remained  in  the  cab  en 
gaged  in  a  riotous  game  of  hunt  the  slipper,  while  Tom 
peered  into  the  dark  interior,  observing  gravely  the  progress 


98  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

of  the  sport.  First  flew  out  an  overcoat  and  a  much-bat 
tered  hat,  finally  the  pumps,  all  of  which  in  due  time  were 
adjusted  to  his  person,  and  I  started  home  with  him,  with 
much  parting  counsel  from  the  other  three. 

"Whereinell  were  you,  Hughie?"  he  inquired.  "Hunted 
all  over  for  you.  Had  a  sousin'  good  time.  Went  to  Bab- 
cock's  —  had  champagne  —  then  to  see  Babesh  in-th'  — 
Woods.  Ham  knows  one  of  the,  Babesh  —  had  supper  with 
four  of 'em.  Nice  Babesh!" 

">For  heaven's  sake  don't  step  on  me  again ! "  I  cried. 

"  Sh'poloshize,  old  man.  But  y'know  I'm  William  Shake- 
spheare.  C'n  do  what  I  damplease."  He  halted  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  and  recited  dramatically :  — 

"  '  Not  marble,  nor  th'  gilded  monuments 
Of  prinches  sh'll  outlive  m'  powerful  rhyme.' 

How's  that,  Alonzho,  b'gosh?" 

"Where  did  you  learn  it?"  I  demanded,  momentarily  for 
getting  his  condition. 

"Fr'm  Ralph,"  he  replied,  "says  I  wrote  it.  Can't  re 
member.  .  .  ." 

After  I  had  got  him  to  bed,  —  a  service  I  had  learned  to  per 
form  with  more  or  less  proficiency,  —  I  sat  down  to  consider 
the  events  of  the  evening,  to  attempt  to  get  a  proportional  view. 
The  intensity  of  my  disgust  was  not  hypocritical  as  I  gazed 
through  the  open  door  into  the  bedroom  and  recalled  the 
times  when  I,  too,  had  been  in  that  condition.  Tom  Peters 
drunk,  and  sleeping  it  off,  was  deplorable,  without  doubt; 
but  Hugh  Paret  drunk  was  detestable,  and  had  no  excuse 
whatever.  Nor  did  I  mean  by  this  to  set  myself  on  a  higher 
ethical  plane,  for  I  felt  nothing  but  despair  and  humility. 
In  my  state  of  clairvoyance  I  perceived  that  he  was  a  better 
man  than  I,  and  that  his  lapses  proceeded  from  a  love  of 
liquor  and  the  transcendent  sense  of  good-fellowship  that 
liquor  brings. 


VII 


THE  crisis  through  which  I  passed  at  Cambridge,  inaugu 
rated  by  the  events  I  have  just  related,  I  find  very  difficult 
to  portray.  It  was  a  religious  crisis,  of  course,  and  my  most 
pathetic  memory  concerning  it  is  of  the  vain  attempts  to 
connect  my  yearnings  and  discontents  with  the  theology  I 
had  been  taught;  I  began  in  secret  to  read  my  Bible,  yet 
nothing  I  hit  upon  seemed  to  point  a  way  out  of  my  present 
predicament,  to  give  any  definite  clew  to  the  solution  of  my 
life.  I  was  not  mature  enough  to  reflect  that  orthodoxy  was 
a  Sunday  religion  unrelated  to  a  world  whose  wheels  were 
turned  by  the  motives  of  self-interest;  that  it  consisted  of 
ideals  not  deemed  practical,  since  no  attempt  was  made  to 
put  them  into  practice  in  the  only  logical  manner,  —  by  re 
organizing  civilization  to  conform  with  them.  The  impli 
cation  was  that  the  Christ  who  had  preached  these  ideals  was 
not  practical.  .  .  .  There  were  undoubtedly  men  in  the 
faculty  of  the  University  who  might  have  helped  me  had  I 
known  of  them;  who  might  have  given  me,  even  at  that 
time,  a  clew  to  the  modern,  logical  explanation  of  the  Bible 
as  an  immortal  record  of  the  thoughts  and  acts  of  men  who 
had  sought  to  do  just  what  I  was  seeking  to  do,  —  connect 
the  religious  impulse  to  life  and  make  it  fruitful  in  life :  an 
explanation,  by  the  way,  a  thousand-fold  more  spiritual  than 
the  old.  But  I  was  hopelessly  entangled  in  the  meshes  of 
the  mystic,  the  miraculous  and  supernatural.  If  I  had  ana 
lyzed  my  yearnings,  I  might  have  realized  that  I  wanted  to 
renounce  the  life  I  had  been  leading,  not  because  it  was  sinful, 
but  because  it  was  aimless.  I  had  not  learned  that  the  Greek 
word  for  sin  is  "  a  missing  of  the  mark."  Just  aimlessness ! 
I  had  been  stirred  with  the  desire  to  perform  some  service 

99 


100  AIFAR  COUNTRY 

for  which  the  world  would  be  grateful :  to  write  great  liter 
ature,  perchance.  But  it  had  never  been  suggested  to  me 
that  such  swellings  of  the  soul  are  religious,  that  religion  is 
that  kind  of  feeling,  of  motive  power  that  drives  the  writer 
and  the  scientist,  the  statesman  and  the  sculptor  as  well  as 
the  priest  and  the  prophet  to  serve  mankind  for  the  joy  of 
serving :  that  religion  is  creative,  or  it  is  nothing :  not 
mechanical,  not  a  force  imposed  from  without,  but  a  driving 
power  within.  The  "religion"  I  had  learned  was  salvation 
from  sin  by  miracle :  sin  a  deliberate  rebellion,  not  a  pathetic 
missing  of  the  mark  of  life;  useful  service  of  man,  not 
the  wandering  of  untutored  souls  who  had  not  been  shown  the 
way.  I  felt  religious.  I  wanted  to  go  to  church,  I  wanted 
to  maintain,  when  it  was  on  me,  that  exaltation  I  dimly  felt 
as  communion  with  a  higher  power,  with  God,  and  which  also 
was  identical  with  my  desire  to  write,  to  create.  .  .  . 

I  bought  books,  sets  of  Wordsworth  and  Keats,  of  Milton 
and  Shelley  and  Shakespeare,  and  hid  them  away  in  my 
bureau  drawers  lest  Tom  and  my  friends  should  see  them. 
These  too  I  read  secretly,  making  excuses  for  not  joining  in 
the  usual  amusements.  Once  I  walked  to  Mrs.  Bolton's  and 
inquired  rather  shamefacedly  for  Hermann  Krebs,  only  to 
be  informed  that  he  had  gone  out.  .  .  .  There  were  lapses, 
of  course,  when  I  went  off  on  the  old  excursions,  —  for  the 
most  part  the  usual  undergraduate  follies,  though  some  were 
of  a  more  serious  nature ;  on  these  I  do  not  care  to  dwell. 
Sex  was  still  a  mystery.  .  .  .  Always  I  awoke  afterwards 
to  bitter  self-hatred  and  despair.  .  .  .  But  my  work  in 
English  improved,  and  I  earned  the  commendation  and 
friendship  of  Mr.  Cheyne.  With  a  wisdom  for  which  I  was 
grateful  he  was  careful  not  to  give  much  sign  of  it  in  classes, 
but  the  fact  that  he  was  "getting  soft  on  me"  was  evident 
enough  to  be  regarded  with  suspicion.  Indeed  the  state 
into  which  I  had  fallen  became  a  matter  of  increasing  con 
cern  to  my  companions,  who  tried  every  means  from  ridicule 
to  sympathy  to  discover  its  cause  and  shake  me  out  of  it. 
The  theory  most  accepted  was  that  I  was  in  love. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  101 

"  Come  on  now,  Hughie  —  tell  me  who  she  is.  I  won't 
give  you  away,"  Tom  would  beg.  Once  or  twice,  indeed,  I 
had  imagined  I  was  in  love  with  the  sisters  of  Boston  class 
mates  whose  dances  I  attended ;  to  these  parties  Tom,  not 
having  overcome  his  diffidence  in  respect  to  what  he  called 
"  social  life,"  never  could  be  induced  to  go. 

It  was  Ralph  who  detected  the  true  cause  of  my  discon 
tent.  Typical  as  no  other  man  I  can  recall  of  the  code  to 
which  we  had  dedicated  ourselves,  the  code  that  moulded 
the  important  part  of  the  undergraduate  world  and  defied 
authority,  he  regarded  any  defection  from  it  in  the  light  of 
treason.  An  instructor,  in  a  fit  of  impatience,  had  once  re 
ferred  to  him  as  the  Mephistopheles  of  his  class;  he  had 
fatal  attractions,  and  a  remarkable  influence.  His  favourite 
pastime  was  the  capricious  exercise  of  his  will  on  weaker  char 
acters,  such  as  his  cousin,  Ham  Durrett ;  if  they  "swore  off," 
Ralph  made  it  his  business  to  get  them  drunk  again,  and  hav 
ing  accomplished  this  would  proceed  himself  to  administer 
a  new  oath  and  see  that  it  was  kept.  Alcohol  seemed  to 
have  no  effect  whatever  on  him.  Though  he  was  in  the 
class  above  me,  I  met  him  frequently  at  a  club  to  which  I 
had  the  honour  to  belong,  then  a  suite  of  rooms  over  a  shop 
furnished  with  a  pool  and  a  billiard  table,  easy-chairs  and  a 
bar.  It  has  since  achieved  the  dignity  of  a  house  of  its  own. 

We  were  having,  one  evening,  a  "religious"  argument, 
Conybear,  Laurens  and  myself  and  some  others.  I  can't 
recall  how  it  began;  I  think  Conybear  had  attacked  the 
institution  of  compulsory  chapel,  which  nobody  defended; 
there  was  something  inherently  wrong,  he  maintained,  with 
a  religion  to  which  men  had  to  be  driven  against  their  wills. 
Somewhat  to  my  surprise  I  found  myself  defending  a  Chris 
tianity  out  of  which  I  had  been  able  to  extract  but  little  com 
fort  and  solace.  Neither  Laurens  nor  Conybear,  however, 
were  for  annihilating  it :  although  they  took  the  other  side 
of  the  discussion  of  a  subject  of  which  none  of  us  knew  any 
thing,  their  attacks  were  but  half-hearted;  like  me,  they 
were  still  under  the  spell  exerted  by  a  youthful  training. 


102  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

We  were  all  of  us  aware  of  Ralph,  who  sat  at  some  distance 
looking  over  the  pages  of  an  English  sporting  weekly.  Pres 
ently  he  flung  it  down. 

"Haven't  you  found  out  yet  that  man  created  God, 
Hughie?"  he  inquired.  "And  even  if  there  were  a  personal 
God,  what  reason  have  you  to  think  that  man  would  be  his 
especial  concern,  or  any  concern  of  his  whatever?  The 
discovery  of  evolution  has  knocked  your  Christianity  into 
a  cocked  hat." 

I  don't  remember  how  I  answered  him.  In  spite  of  the 
superficiality  of  his  own  arguments,  which  I  was  not  learned 
enough  to  detect,  I  was  ingloriously  routed.  Darwin  had 
kicked  over  the  bucket,  and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  ... 
After  we  had  left  the  club  both  Conybear  and  Laurens 
admitted  they  were  somewhat  disturbed,  declaring  that 
Ralph  had  gone  too  far.  I  spent  a  miserable  night,  recalling 
the  naturalistic  assertions  he  had  made  so  glibly,  asking 
myself  again  and  again  how  it  was  that  the  religion  to  which 
I  so  vainly  clung  had  no  greater  effect  on  my  actions  and  on 
my  will,  had  not  prevented  me  from  lapses  into  degradation. 
And  I  hated  myself  for  having  argued  upon  a  subject  that 
was  still  sacred.  I  believed  in  Christ,  which  is  to  say  that 
I  believed  that  in  some  inscrutable  manner  he  existed,  con 
tinued  to  dominate  the  world  and  had  suffered  on  my  account. 

To  whom  should  I  go  now  for  a  confirmation  of  my  waver 
ing  beliefs  ?  One  of  the  results  —  it  will  be  remembered  — 
of  religion  as  I  was  taught  it  was  a  pernicious  shyness,  and 
even  though  I  had  found  a  mentor  and  confessor,  I  might 
have  hesitated  to  unburden  myself.  This  would  be  dif 
ferent  from  arguing  with  Ralph  Hambleton.  In  my  predic 
ament,  as  I  was  wandering  through  the  yard,  I  came  across 
a  notice  of  an  evening  talk  to  students  in  Holden  Chapel, 
by  a  clergyman  named  Phillips  Brooks.  This  was  before 
the  time,"  let  me  say  in  passing,  when  his  sermons  at 
Harvard  were  attended  by  crowds  of  undergraduates. 
Well,  I  stood  staring  at  the  notice,  debating  whether  I 
should  go,  trying  to  screw  up  my  courage ;  for  I  recognized 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  103 

clearly  that  such  a  step,  if  it  were  to  be  of  any  value, 
must  mean  a  distinct  departure  from  my  present  mode  of 
life;  and  I  recall  thinking  with  a  certain  revulsion  that  I 
should  have  to  "turn  good."  My  presence  at  the  meeting 
would  be  known  the  next  day  to  all  my  friends,  for  the  idea 
of  attending  a  religious  gathering  when  one  was  not  forced 
to  do  so  by  the  authorities  was  unheard  of  in  our  set.  I 
should  be  classed  with  the  despised  "pious  ones"  who 
did  such  things  regularly.  I  shrank  from  the  ridicule. 
I  had,  however,  heard  of  Mr.  Brooks  from  Ned  Symonds, 
who  was  by  no  means  of  the  pious  type,  and  whose  parents 
attended  Mr.  Brooks's  church  in  Boston.  ...  I  left  my 
decision  in  abeyance.  But  when  evening  came  I  stole  away 
from  the  club  table,  on  the  plea  of  an  engagement,  and  made 
my  way  rapidly  toward  Holden  Chapel.  I  had  almost 
reached  it  when  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Symonds  and  of  some 
others  approaching,  —  and  I  went  on,  to  turn  again.  By 
this  time  the  meeting,  which  was  in  a  room  on  the  second 
floor,  had  already  begun.  Palpitating,  I  climbed  the  steps ; 
the  door  of  the  room  was  slightly  ajar;  I  looked  in;  I 
recall  a  distinct  sensation  of  surprise,  —  the  atmosphere 
of  that  meeting  was  so  different  from  what  I  had  ex 
pected.  Not  a  "pious"  atmosphere  at  all!  I  saw  a  very 
tall  and  heavy  gentleman,  dressed  in  black,  who  sat, 
wholly  at  ease,  on  the  table !  One  hand  was  in  his  pocket, 
one  foot  swung  clear  of  the  ground ;  and  he  was  not  preach 
ing,  but  talking  in  an  easy,  conversational  tone  to  some 
forty  young  men  who  sat  intent  on  his  words.  I  was  too 
excited  to  listen  to  what  he  was  saying,  I  was  making  a  vain 
attempt  to  classify  him.  But  I  remember  the  thought,  — 
for  it  struck  me  with  force,  —  that  if  Christianity  were  so 
thoroughly  discredited  by  evolution,  as  Ralph  Hambleton 
and  other  agnostics  would  have  one  believe,  why  should 
this  remarkably  sane  and  able-looking  person  be  standing 
up  for  it  as  though  it  were  still  an  established  and  incon 
trovertible  fact? 
He  had  not,  certainly,  the  air  of  a  dupe  or  a  sentimentalist, 


104  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

but  inspired  confidence  by  his  very  personality.  Youth- 
like,  I  watched  him  narrowly  for  flaws,  for  oratorical  tricks, 
for  all  kinds  of  histrionic  symptoms.  Again  I  was  near  the 
secret;  again  it  escaped  me.  The  argument  for  Christian 
ity  lay  not  in  assertions  about  it,  but  in  being  it.  This  man 
was  Christianity.  ...  I  must  have  felt  something  of  this, 
even  though  I  failed  to  formulate  it.  And  unconsciously  I 
contrasted  his  strength,  which  reinforced  the  atmosphere  of 
the  room,  with  that  of  Ralph  Hambleton,  — who  had  had  a 
greater  influence  over  me  than  I  have  recorded,  and  had 
come  to  sway  me  more  and  more,  as  he  had  swayed  others. 
The  strength  of  each  was  impressive,  yet  this  Mr.  Brooks 
seemed  to  me  the  bodily  presentment  of  a  set  of  values  which 
I  would  have  kept  constantly  before  my  eyes.  ...  I  felt  him 
drawing  me,  overcoming  my  hesitation,  belittling  my  fear 
of  ridicule.  I  began  gently  to  open  the  door  —  when  some 
thing  happened,  —  one  of  those  little  things  that  may  change 
the  course  of  a  life.  The  door  made  little  noise,  yet  one  of  the 
men  sitting  in  the  back  of  the  room  chanced  to  look  around, 
and  I  recognized  Hermann  Krebs.  His  face  was  still  sunken 
from  his  recent  illness.  Into  his  eyes  seemed  to  leap  a  sud 
den  appeal,  an  appeal  to  which  my  soul  responded  — 
yet  I  hurried  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  street.  In 
stantly  I  regretted  my  retreat,  I  would  have  gone  back,  but 
lacked  the  courage ;  and  I  strayed  unhappily  for  hours,  now 
haunted  by  that  look  of  Krebs,  now  wondering  what  the 
remarkably  sane-looking  and  informal  clergyman  whose 
presence  dominated  the  little  room  had  been  talking  about. 
I  never  learned,  but  I  did  live  to  read  his  biography,  to  dis 
cover  what  he  might  have  talked  about,  —  for  he  if  any  man 
believed  that  life  and  religion  are  one,  and  preached  conse 
cration  to  life's  task. 

Of  little  use  to  speculate  whether  the  message,   had  I 
learned  it  then,  would  have  fortified  and  transformed  me ! 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  105 


In  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  was  unable  to  relate  to  a  satis 
fying  conception  of  religion  my  new-born  determination,  I 
made  up  my  mind,  at  least,  to  renounce  my  tortuous  ways. 
I  had  promised  my  father  to  be  a  lawyer ;  I  would  keep  my 
promise,  I  would  give  the  law  a  fair  trial ;  later  on,  perhaps, 
I  might  demonstrate  an  ability  to  write.  All  very  praise 
worthy  !  The  season  was  Lent,  a  fitting  time  for  renunci 
ations  and  resolves.  Although  I  had  more  than  once  fallen 
from  grace,  I  believed  myself  at  last  to  have  settled  down  on 
my  true  course  —  when  something  happened.  The  devil 
interfered  —  subtly,  as  usual  —  now  in  the  person  of  Jerry 
Kyme.  It  should  be  said  in  justice  to  Jerry  that  he  did  not 
look  the  part.  He  had  sunny-red,  curly  hair,  mischievous 
blue  eyes  with  long  lashes,  and  he  harboured  no  respect 
whatever  for  any  individual  or  institution,  sacred  or  profane ; 
he  possessed,  however,  a  shrewd  sense  of  his  own  value,  as 
many  innocent  and  unsuspecting  souls  discovered  as  early 
as  our  freshman  year,  and  his  method  of  putting  down  the 
presumptuous  was  both  effective  and  unique.  If  he  liked 
you,  there  could  be  no  mistake  about  it. 

One  evening  when  I  was  engaged  in  composing  a  theme  for 
Mr.  Cheyne  on  no  less  a  subject  than  the  interpretation  of  the 
work  of  William  Wordsworth,  I  found  myself  unexpectedly 
sprawling  on  the  floor,  in  my  descent  kicking  the  table  so  vig 
orously  as  to  send  the  ink-well  a  foot  or  two  toward  the  ceiling. 
This,  be  it  known,  was  a  typical  proof  of  Jerry's  esteem.  For 
he  had  entered  noiselessly,  jerking  the  back  of  my  chair, 
which  chanced  to  be  tilted,  and  stood  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  surveying  the  ruin  he  had  wrought,  watching  the  ink 
as  it  trickled  on  the  carpet.  Then  he  picked  up  the  book. 

"Poetry,  you  darned  old  grind  1"  he  exclaimed  disgustedly. 
"Say,  Parry,  I  don't  know  what's  got  into  you,  but  I  want 
you  to  come  home  with  me  for  the  Easter  holidays.  It'll 
do  you  good.  We'll  be  on  the  Hudson,  you  know,  and  we'll 
manage  to  make  life  bearable  somehow." 


106  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

I  forgot  my  irritation,  in  sheer  surprise. 

"Why,  that's  mighty  good  of  you,  Jerry — "  I  began, 
struggling  to  my  feet. 

"  Oh,  rot ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  shouldn't  ask  you  if  I  didn't 
want  you." 

There  was  no  denying  the  truth  of  this,  and  after  he  had 
gone  I  sat  for  a  long  time  with  my  pen  in  my  mouth,  reflect 
ing  as  to  whether  or  not  I  should  go.  For  I  had  the  instinct 
that  here  was  another  cross-roads,  that  more  depended  on 
my  decision  than  I  cared  to  admit.  But  even  then  I  knew 
what  I  should  do.  Ridiculous  not  to  —  I  told  myself.  How 
could  a  week  or  ten  days  with  Jerry  possibly  affect  my  new 
born  resolve? 

Yet  the  prospect,  now,  of  a  visit  to  the  Kymes'  was  by  no 
means  so  glowing  as  it  once  would  have  been.  For  I  had  seen 
visions,  I  had  dreamed  dreams,  beheld  a  delectable  country  of 
my  very  own.  A  year  ago — nay,  even  a  month  ago — how  such 
an  invitation  would  have  glittered !  .  .  .  I  returned  at  length 
to  my  theme,  over  which,  before  Jerry's  arrival,  I  had  been 
working  feverishly.  But  now  the  glamour  had  gone  from  it. 

Presently  Tom  came  in. 

"Anyone  been  here?"  he  demanded. 

"Jerry,"  I  told  him. 

"What  did  he  want?" 

"He  wanted  me  to  go  home  with  him  at  Easter." 

"You're  going,  of  course." 

"I  don't  know.    I  haven't  decided." 

"You'd  be  a  fool  not  to,"  was  Tom's  comment.  It 
voiced,  succinctly,  a  prevailing  opinion. 

It  was  the  conclusion  I  arrived  at  in  my  own  mind.  But 
just  why  I  had  been  chosen  for  the  honour,  especially  at 
such  a  time,  was  a  riddle.  Jerry's  invitations  were  charily 
given,  and  valued  accordingly ;  and  more  than  once,  at  our 
table,  I  had  felt  a  twinge  of  envy  when  Conybear  or  someone 
else  had  remarked,  with  the  proper  nonchalance,  in  answer 
to  a  question,  that  they  were  going  to  Weathersfield.  Such 
was  the  name  of  the  Kyme  place.  ...  * 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  107 

I  shall  never  forget  the  impression  made  on  me  by  the 
decorous  luxury  of  that  big  house,  standing  amidst  its  old 
trees,  halfway  up  the  gentle  slope  that  rose  steadily  from 
the  historic  highway  where  poor  Andre  was  captured.  I 
can  see  now  the  heavy  stone  pillars  of  its  portico  vignetted 
in  a  flush  of  tenderest  green,  the  tulips  just  beginning  to 
flame  forth  their  Easter  colours  in  the  well-kept  beds,  the 
stately,  well-groomed  evergreens,  the  vivid  lawns,  the 
clipped  hedges.  And  like  an  overwhelming  wave  of  emo 
tion  that  swept  all  before  it,  the  impressiveness  of  wealth 
took  possession  of  me.  For  here  was  a  kind  of  wealth  I 
had  never  known,  that  did  not  exist  in  the  West,  nor  even 
in  the  still  Puritan  environs  of  Boston  where  I  had  visited. 
It  took  itself  for  granted,  proclaimed  itself  complacently 
to  have  solved  all  problems.  By  ignoring  them,  perhaps. 
But  I  was  too  young  to  guess  this.  It  was  order  personified, 
gaining  effect  at  every  turn  by  a  multitude  of  details  too 
trivial  to  mention  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  they  entered 
deeply  into  my  consciousness,  until  they  came  to  represent, 
collectively,  the  very  flower  of  achievement.  It  was  a 
wealth  that  accepted  tribute  calmly,  as  of  inherent  right. 
Law  and  tradition  defended  its  sanctity  more  effectively 
than  troops.  Literature  descended  from  her  high  altar  to 
lend  it  dignity;  and  the  long,  silent  library  displayed  row 
upon  row  of  the  masters,  appropriately  clad  in  morocco  or 
calf,  —  Smollett,  Macaulay,  Gibbon,  Richardson,  Fielding, 
Scott,  Dickens,  Irving  and  Thackeray,  as  though  each  had 
striven  for  a  tablet  here.  Art  had  denied  herself  that  her 
canvases  might  be  hung  on  these  walls;  and  even  the 
Church,  on  that  first  Sunday  of  my  visit,  forgot  the 
blood  of  her  martyrs  that  she  might  adorn  an  appro 
priate  niche  in  the  setting.  The  clergyman,  at  one  of 
the  dinner  parties,  gravely  asked  a  blessing  as  upon  an 
Institution  that  included  and  absorbed  all  other  institutions 
in  its  being.  .  .  . 

The  note  of  that  house  was  a  tempered  gaiety.  Guests 
arrived  from  New  York,  spent  the  night  and  departed  again 


108  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

without  disturbing  the  even  tenor  of  its  ways.  Unobtrusive 
servants  ministered  to  their  wants,  —  and  to  mine.  .  .  . 

Conybear  was  there,  and  two  classmates  from  Boston, 
and  we  were  treated  with  the  amiable  tolerance  accorded  to 
college  youths  and  intimates  of  the  son  of  the  house.  One 
night  there  was  a  dance  in  our  honour.  Nor  have  I  forgotten 
Jerry's  sister,  Nathalie,  whom  I  had  met  at  Class  Days,  a 
slim  and  willowy,  exotic  young  lady  of  the  Botticelli  type, 
with  a  crown  of  burnished  hair,  yet  more  suggestive  of  a 
hothouse  than  of  spring.  She  spoke  English  with  a  French 
accent.  Capricious,  impulsive,  she  captured  my  interest 
because  she  put  a  high  value  on  her  favour;  she  drove  me 
over  the  hills,  informing  me  at  length  that  I  was  sympathique 
—  different  from  the  rest ;  in  short,  she  emphasized  and 
intensified  what  I  may  call  the  Weathersfield  environment, 
stirred  up  in  me  new  and  vague  aspirations  that  troubled  yet 
excited  me. 

Then  there  was  Mrs.  Kyme,  a  pretty,  light-hearted  lady, 
still  young,  who  seemed  to  have  no  intention  of  growing  older, 
who  romped  and  played  songs  for  us  on  the  piano.  The 
daughter  of  an  old  but  now  impecunious  Westchester  family, 
she  had  been  born  to  adorn  the  position  she  held,  she  was 
adapted  by  nature  to  wring  from  it  the  utmost  of  the  joys 
it  offered.  From  her,  rather  than  from  her  husband,  both 
of  the  children  seemed  to  have  inherited.  I  used  to  watch 
Mr.  Grosvenor  Kyme  as  he  sat  at  the  end  of  the  dinner-table, 
dark,  preoccupied,  taciturn,  symbolical  of  a  wealth  new  to 
my  experience,  and  which  had  about  it  a  certain  fabulous 
quality.  It  toiled  not,  neither  did  it  spin,  but  grew  as  if 
by  magic,  day  and  night,  until  the  very  conception  of  it 
was  overpowering.  What  must  it  be  to  have  had  ancestors 
who  had  been  clever  enough  to  sit  still  until  a  congested  and 
discontented  Europe  had  begun  to  pour  its  thousands  and 
hundreds  of  thousands  into  the  gateway  of  the  western  world, 
until  that  gateway  had  become  a  metropolis?  ancestors,  of 
course,  possessing  what  now  suddenly  appeared  to  me  as 
the  most  desirable  of  gifts  —  since  it  reaped  so  dazzling  a  har- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  109 

vest — business  foresight.  From  time  to  time  these  ancestors 
had  continued  to  buy  desirable  corners,  which  no  amount 
of  persuasion  had  availed  to  make  them  relinquish.  Lease 
them,  yes;  sell  them,  never!  By  virtue  of  such  a  system 
wealth  was  as  inevitable  as  human  necessity;  and  the 
thought  of  human  necessity  did  not  greatly  bother  me.  Mr. 
Kyme's  problem  of  life  was  not  one  of  making  money, 
but  of  investing  it.  One  became  automatically  a  person 
age.  .  .  . 

It  was  due  to  one  of  those  singular  coincidences  —  so  inter 
esting  a  subject  for  speculation  —  that  the  man  who  revealed 
to  me  this  golden  romance  of  the  Kyme  family  was  none 
other  than  a  resident  of  my  own  city,  Mr.  Theodore  Watling, 
now  become  one  of  our  most  important  and  influential  citi 
zens;  a  corporation  lawyer,  new  and  stimulating  qualifica 
tion,  suggesting  as  it  did,  a  deus  ex  machina  of  great  affairs. 
That  he,  of  all  men,  should  come  to  Weathersfield  astonished 
me,  since  I  was  as  yet  to  make  the  connection  between  that 
finished,  decorous,  secluded  existence  and  the  source  of  its 
being.  The  evening  before  my  departure  he  arrived  in  com 
pany  with  two  other  gentlemen,  a  Mr.  Talbot  and  a  Mr. 
Saxe,  whose  names  were  spoken  with  respect  in  a  sphere  of 
which  I  had  hitherto  taken  but  little  cognizance  —  Wall 
Street.  Conybear  informed  me  that  they  were  "  magnates," 
.  .  .  We  were  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  at  tea,  when  they 
entered  with  Mr.  Watling,  and  no  sooner  had  he  spoken  to 
Mrs.  Kyme  than  his  quick  eye  singled  me  out  of  the  group. 

"  Why,  Hugh ! "  he  exclaimed,  taking  my  hand.  "  I  had 
no  idea  I  should  meet  you  here — I  saw  your  father  only  last 
week,  the  day  I  left  home."  And  he  added,  turning  to 
Mrs.  Kyme,  "Hugh  is  the  son  of  Mr.  Matthew  Paret,  who 
has  been  the  leader  of  our  bar  for  many  years." 

The  recognition  and  the  tribute  to  my  father  were  so 
graciously  given  that  I  warmed  with  gratitude  and  pride, 
while  Mr.  Kyme  smiled  a  little,  remarking  that  I  was  a 
friend  of  Jerry's.  Theodore  Watling,  for  being  here,  had 
suddenly  assumed  in  my  eyes  a  considerable  consequence, 


110  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

though  the  note  he  struck  in  that  house  was  a  strange  one. 
It  was,  however,  his  own  note,  and  had  a  certain  distinction, 
a  ring  of  independence,  of  the  knowledge  of  self-worth. 
Dinner  at  Weathersfield  we  youngsters  had  usually  found 
rather  an  oppressive  ceremony,  with  its  shaded  lights  and 
precise  ritual  over  which  Mr.  Kyme  presided  like  a  high 
priest;  conversation  had  been  restrained.  That  night,  as 
Johnnie  Laurens  afterwards  expressed  it,  "things  loosened 
up,"  and  Mr.  Watling  was  responsible  for  the  loosening. 
Taking  command  of  the  Kymes'  dinner  table  appeared  to 
me  to  be  no  mean  achievement,  but  this  is  just  what  he  did, 
without  being  vulgar  or  noisy  or  assertive.  Suaviter  in 
modo,  fortiter  in  re.  If,  as  I  watched  him  there  with  a  new 
born  pride  and  loyalty,  I  had  paused  to  reconstruct  the  idea 
that  the  mention  of  his  name  would  formerly  have  evoked, 
I  suppose  I  should  have  found  him  falling  short  of  my  notion 
of  a  gentleman ;  it  had  been  my  father's  opinion ;  but  Mr. 
Watling's  marriage  to  Gene  Hollister's  aunt  had  given  him  a 
standing  with  us  at  home.  He  possessed  virility,  vitality  in 
a  remarkable  degree,  yet  some  elusive  quality  that  was 
neither  tact  nor  delicacy  —  though  related  to  these  — 
differentiated  him  from  the  commonplace,  self-made  man  of 
ability.  He  was  just  off  the  type.  To  liken  him  to  a  cloth 
ing  store  model  of  a  well-built,  broad-shouldered  man  with  a 
firm  neck,  a  handsome,  rather  square  face  not  lacking  in 
colour  and  a  conventional,  drooping  moustache  would  be 
slanderous;  yet  he  did  suggest  it.  Suggesting  it,  he  re 
deemed  it:  and  the  middle  western  burr  in  his  voice  was 
rather  attractive  than  otherwise.  He  had  not  so  much  the 
air  of  belonging  there,  as  of  belonging  anywhere  —  one  of 
those  anomalistic  American  citizens  of  the  world  who 
go  abroad  and  make  intimates  of  princes.  Before  the 
meal  was  over  he  had  inspired  me  with  loyalty  and 
pride,  enlisted  the  admiration  of  Jerry  and  Conybear 
and  Johnnie  Laurens;  we  followed  him  into  the  smoking- 
room,  sitting  down  in  a  row  on  a  leather  lounge  behind  our 
elders. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  111 

Here,  now  that  the  gentlemen  were  alone,  there  was  an 
inspiring  largeness  in  their  talk  that  fired  the  imagination. 
The  subject  was  investments,  at  first  those  of  coal  and  iron 
in  my  own  state,  for  Mr.  Watling,  it  appeared,  was  counsel 
for  the  Boyne  Iron  Works. 

"It  will  pay  you  to  keep  an  eye  on  that  company,  Mr. 
Kyme,"  he  said,  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  cigar.  "Now 
that  old  Mr.  Durrett's  gone — " 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  Nathaniel  Durrett's  dead!"  said 
Mr.  Kyme. 

The  lawyer  nodded. 

"  The  old  regime  passed  with  him.  Adolf  Scherer  succeeds 
him,  and  you  may  take  my  word  for  it,  he's  a  coming  man. 
Mr.  Durrett,  who  was  a  judge  of  men,  recognized  that. 
Scherer  was  an  emigrant,  he  had  ideas,  and  rose  to  be  a 
foreman.  For  the  last  few  years  Mr.  Durrett  threw  every 
thing  on  his  shoulders.  .  .  ." 

Little  by  little  the  scope  of  the  discussion  was  enlarged 
until  it  ranged  over  a  continent,  touching  lightly  upon  lines 
of  railroad,  built  or  projected,  across  the  great  west  our 
pioneers  had  so  lately  succeeded  in  wresting  from  the  savages, 
upon  mines  of  copper  and  gold  hidden  away  among  the 
mountains,  and  millions  of  acres  of  forest  and  grazing  lands 
which  a  complacent  government  would  relinquish  provided 
certain  technicalities  were  met :  touching  lightly,  too,  — 
very  lightly,  —  upon  senators  and  congressmen  at  Washing 
ton.  And  for  the  first  time  I  learned  that  not  the  least  of 
the  functions  of  these  representatives  of  the  people  was 
to  act  as  the  medium  between  capital  and  investment,  to 
facilitate  the  handing  over  of  the  Republic's  resources  to 
those  in  a  position  to  develop  them.  The  emphasis  was 
laid  on  development,  or  rather  on  the  resulting  prosperity 
for  the  country :  that  was  the  justification,  and  it  was  taken 
for  granted  as  supreme.  Nor  was  it  new  to  me,  this  cult  of 
prosperity.  I  recalled  the  torch-light  processions  of  the 
tariff  enthusiasts  of  my  childhood  days,  my  father's  cham 
pionship  of  the  Republican  Party.  He  had  not  idealized 


112  ..A  FAR  COUNTRY 

politicians,  either.  For  the  American,  politics  and  ethics 
were  strangers. 

Thus  I  listened  with  increasing  fascination  to  these  gentle 
men  in  evening  clothes  calmly  treating  the  United  States 
as  a  melon  patch  that  existed  largely  for  the  purpose  of 
being  divided  up  amongst  a  limited  and  favoured  number 
of  persons.  I  had  a  feeling  of  being  among  the  initiated. 
Where,  it  may  be  asked,  were  my  ideals?  Let  it  not 
be  supposed  that  I  believed  myself  to  have  lost  them. 
If  so,  the  impression  I  have  given  of  myself  has  been 
wholly  inadequate.  No,  they  had  been  transmuted,  that 
is  all,  transmuted  by  the  alchemy  of  Weathersfield,  by 
the  personality  of  Theodore  Watling  into  brighter  visions. 
My  eyes  rarely  left  his  face;  I  hung  on  his  talk,  which 
was  interspersed  with  native  humour,  though  he  did  not 
always  join  in  the  laughter,  sometimes  gazing  at  the  fire, 
as  though  his  keen  mind  were  grappling  with  a  prob 
lem  suggested.  I  noted  the  respect  in  which  his  opinions 
were  held,  and  my  imagination  was  fired  by  an  impression  of 
the  power  to  be  achieved  by  successful  men  of  his  profession, 
by  the  evidence  of  their  indispensability  to  capital  itself. 
...  At  last  when  the  gentlemen  rose  and  were  leaving 
the  (room,  Mr.  Watling  lingered,  with  his  hand  on  my 
arm. 

"Of  course  you're  going  through  the  Law  School,  Hugh," 
he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"Good!"  he  exclaimed  emphatically.  "The  law,  to-day, 
is  more  of  a  career  than  ever,  especially  for  a  young  man 
with  your  antecedents  and  advantages,  and  I  know  of  no 
city  in  the  United  States  where  I  would  rather  start  practice, 
if  I  were  a  young  man,  than  ours.  In  the  next  twenty  years 
we  shall  see  a  tremendous  growth.  Of  course  you'll  be  going 
into  your  father's  office.  You  couldn't  do  better.  But 
I'll  keep  an  eye  on  you,  and  perhaps  I'll  be  able  to  help  you 
a  little,  too." 

I  thanked  him  gratefully. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  113 


A  famous  artist,  who  started  out  in  youth  to  embrace  a 
military  career  and  who  failed  to  pass  an  examination  at 
West  Point,  is  said  to  have  remarked  that  if  silicon  had  been 
a  gas  he  would  have  been  a  soldier.  I  am  afraid  I  may  have 
given  the  impression  that  if  I  had  not  gone  to  Weathersfield  and 
encountered  Mr.  Watling  I  might  not  have  been  a  lawyer. 
This  impression  would  be  misleading.  And  while  it  is  certain 
that  I  have  not  exaggerated  the  intensity  of  the  spiritual  expe 
rience  I  went  through  at  Cambridge,  a  somewhat  belated  con 
sideration  for  the  truth  compels  me  to  register  my  belief  that 
the  mood  would  in  any  case  have  been  ephemeral.  *  The  poison 
generated  by  the  struggle  of  my  nature  with  its  environment 
had  sunk  too  deep,  and  the  very  education  that  was  supposed 
to  make  a  practical  man  of  me  had  turned  me  into  a  senti 
mentalist.  I  became,  as  will  be  seen,  anything  but  a  practi 
cal  man  in  the  true  sense,  though  the  world  in  which  I  had 
been  brought  up  and  continued  to  live  deemed  me  such.  My 
father  was  greatly  pleased  when  I  wrote  him  that  I  was  now 
more  than  ever  convinced  of  the  wisdom  of  choosing  the  law 
as  my  profession,  and  was  satisfied  that  I  had  come  to  my 
senses  at  last.  He  had  still  been  prepared  to  see  me  "  go  off  at 
a  tangent,"  as  he  expressed  it.  On  the  other  hand,  the  power 
ful  effect  of  the  appeal  made  by  Weathersfield  and  Mr. 
Watling  must  not  be  underestimated.  Here  in  one  object 
lesson  was  emphasized  a  host  of  suggestions  each  of  which 
had  made  its  impression.  And  when  I  returned  to  Cambridge 
Alonzo  Cheyne  knew  that  he  had  lost  me.  .  .  . 

I  pass  over  the  rest  of  my  college  course,  and  the  years  I 
spent  at  the  Harvard  Law  School,  where  were  instilled  into 
me  without  difficulty  the  dictums  that  the  law  is  the  most 
important  of  all  professions,  that  those  who  entered  it  were  a 
priestly  class  set  aside  to  guard  from  profanation  that  Ark  of 
the  Covenant,  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States.  In 
short,  I  was  taught  law  precisely  as  I  had  been  taught  reli 
gion,  —  scriptural  infallibility  over  again, — a  static  law  and  a 


114  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

static  theology,  —  a  set  of  concepts  that  were  supposed  to  be 
equal  to  any  problems  civilization  would  have  to  meet  until 
the  millennium.  What  we  are  wont  to  call  wisdom  is  often 
naively  innocent  of  impending  change.  It  has  no  barometric 
properties. 

I  shall  content  myself  with  relating  one  incident  only  of 
this  period.  In  the  January  of  my  last  year  I  went  with  a 
party  of  young  men  and  girls  to  stay  over  Sunday  at  Beverly 
Farms,  where  Mrs.  Fremantle  —  a  young  Boston  matron  — 
had  opened  her  cottage  for  the  occasion.  This  "cottage," 
a  roomy,  gabled  structure,  stood  on  a  cliff,  at  the  foot  of 
which  roared  the  wintry  Atlantic,  while  we  danced  and  popped 
corn  before  the  open  fires.  During  the  daylight  hours  we 
drove  about  the  country  in  sleighs,  or  made  ridiculous 
attempts  to  walk  on  snow-shoes. 

On  Sunday  afternoon,  left  temporarily  to  my  own  devices, 
I  wandered  along  the  cliff,  crossing  into  the  adjoining  prop 
erty.  The  wind  had  fallen;  the  waves,  much  subdued, 
broke  rhythmically  against  the  rocks;  during  the  night  a 
new  mantle  of  snow  had  been  spread,  and  the  clouds  were 
still  low  and  menacing.  As  I  strolled  I  became  aware  of  a 
motionless  figure  ahead  of  me,  —  one  that  seemed  oddly 
familiar;  the  set  of  the  shabby  overcoat  on  the  stooping 
shoulders,  the  unconscious  pose  contributed  to  a  certain 
sharpness  of  individuality;  in  the  act  of  challenging  my 
memory,  I  halted.  The  man  was  gazing  at  the  seascape,  and 
his  very  absorption  gave  me  a  sudden  and  unfamiliar  thrill. 
The  word  absorption  precisely  expresses  my  meaning,  for 
he  seemed  indeed  to  have  become  a  part  of  his  surroundings, 
—  an  harmonious  part.  Presently  he  swung  about  and 
looked  at  me  as  though  he  had  expected  to  find  me  there  — 
and  greeted  me  by  name. 

"  Krebs ! "  I  exclaimed. 

He  smiled,  and  flung  out  his  arm,  indicating  the  scene. 
His  eyes  at  that  moment  seemed  to  reflect  the  sea,  —  they 
made  the  gaunt  face  suddenly  beautiful. 

"This  reminds  me  of  a  Japanese  print,"  he  said. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  115 

The  words,  or  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke,  curiously  trans 
formed  the  picture.  It  was  as  if  I  now  beheld  it,  anew, 
through  his  vision:  the  grey  water  stretching  eastward  to 
melt  into  the  grey  sky,  the  massed,  black  trees  on  the  hill 
side,  powdered  with  white,  the  snow  in  rounded,  fantastic 
patches  on  the  huge  boulders  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  Krebs 
did  not  seem  like  a  stranger,  but  like  one  whom  I  had  known 
always,  —  one  who  stood  in  a  peculiar  relationship  between 
me  and  something  greater  I  could  not  define.  The  impres 
sion  was  fleeting,  but  real.  ...  I  remember  wondering 
how  he  could  have  known  anything  about  Japanese  prints. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  were  still  in  this  part  of  the  country," 
I  remarked  awkwardly. 

"  I'm  a  reporter  on  a  Boston  newspaper,  and  I've  been  sent 
up  here  to  interview  old  Mr.  Dome,  who  lives  in  that  house," 
and  he  pointed  to  a  roof  above  the  trees.  "There  is  a 
rumour,  which  I  hope  to  verify,  that  he  has  just  given  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars  to  the  University." 

"And  —  won't  he  see  you?" 

"At  present  he's  taking  a  nap,"  said  Krebs.  "He  comes 
here  occasionally  for  a  rest." 

"Do  you  like  interviewing?"  I  asked. 

He  smiled  again. 

"Well,  I  see  a  good  many  different  kinds  of  people,  and 
that's  interesting." 

"  But  —  being  a  reporter  ?  "  I  persisted. 

This  continued  patronage  was  not  a  conscious  expression  of 
superiority  on  my  part,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  resent  it.  He 
had  aroused  my  curiosity. 

"I'm  going  into  the  law,"  he  said. 

The  quiet  confidence  with  which  he  spoke  aroused,  sud 
denly,  a  twinge  of  antagonism.  He  had  every  right  to  go 
into  the  law,  of  course,  and  yet !  .  .  .  my  query  would  have 
made  it  evident  to  me,  had  I  been  introspective  in  those 
days,  that  the  germ  of  the  ideal  of  the  profession,  implanted 
by  Mr.  Watling,  was  expanding.  Were  not  influential 
friends  necessary  for  the  proper  kind  of  career  ?  and  where 


116  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

were  Krebs's?  In  spite  of  the  history  of  Daniel  Webster 
and  a  long  line  of  American  tradition,  I  felt  an  incongruity 
in  my  classmate's  aspiration.  And  as  he  stood  there,  gaunt 
and  undoubtedly  hungry,  his  eyes  kindling,  I  must  vaguely 
have  classed  him  with  the  revolutionaries  of  all  the  ages; 
must  have  felt  in  him,  instinctively,  a  menace  to  the  stability 
of  that  Order  with  which  I  had  thrown  my  fortunes.  And 
yet  there  were  comparatively  poor  men  in  the  Law  School 
itself  who  had  not  made  me  feel  this  way !  He  had  impressed 
me  against  my  will,  taken  me  by  surprise,  commiseration 
had  been  mingled  with  other  feelings  that  sprang  out  of 
the  memory  of  the  night  I  had  called  on  him,  when  he  had 
been  sick.  Now  I  resented  something  in  him  which  Tom 
Peters  had  called  "crust." 

"  The  law ! "  I  repeated.     "  Why  ?  " 

"Well,"  he  said,  "even when  I  was  a  boy,  working  at  odd 
jobs,  I  used  to  think  if  I  could  ever  be  a  lawyer  I  should  have 
reached  the  top  notch  of  human  dignity." 

Once  more  his  smile  disarmed  me. 

"And  now?"  I  asked  curiously. 

"You  see,  it  was  an  ideal  with  me,  I  suppose.  My  father 
was  responsible  for  that.  He  had  the  German  temperament 
of  '48,  and  when  he  fled  to  this  country,  he  expected  to  find  — 
Utopia."  The  smile  emerged  again,  like  the  sun  shining 
through  clouds,  while  fascination  and  antagonism  again 
struggled  within  me.  "And  then  came  frightful  troubles. 
For  years  he  could  get  only  enough  work  to  keep  him  and 
my  mother  alive,  but  he  never  lost  his  faith  in  America.  '  It 
is  man/  he  would  say,  'man  has  to  grow  up  to  it  —  to 
liberty/  Without  the  struggle,  liberty  would  be  worth 
nothing.  And  he  used  to  tell  me  that  we  must  all  do  our 
part,  we  who  had  come  here,  and  not  expect  everything  to 
be  done  for  us.  He  had  made  that  mistake.  If  things  were 
bad,  why,  put  a  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  help  to  make 
them  better. 

"That  helped  me,"  he  continued,  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"For  I've  seen  a  good  many  things,  especially  since  I've 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  ( 117 

been  working  for  a  newspaper.  I've  seen,  again  and  again, 
the  power  of  the  law  turned  against  those  whom  it  was 
intended  to  protect,  I've  seen  lawyers  who  care  a  great  deal 
more  about  winning  cases  than  they  do  about  justice,  who 
prostitute  their  profession  to  profit  making,  —  profit  making 
for  themselves  and  others.  And  they  are  often  the  respect 
able  lawyers,  too,  men  of  high  standing,  whom  you  would 
not  think  would  do  such  things.  They  are  on  the  side  of 
the  powerful,  and  the  best  of  them  are  all  retained  by  rich 
men  and  corporations.  And  what  is  the  result?  One  of 
the  worst  evils,  I  think,  that  can  befall  a  country.  The 
poor  man  goes  less  and  less  to  the  courts.  He  is  getting 
bitter,  which  is  bad,  which  is  dangerous.  But  men  won't 
see  it." 

It  was  on  my  tongue  to  refute  this,  to  say  that  everybody 
had  a  chance.  I  could  indeed  recall  many  arguments  that  had 
been  drilled  into  me ;  quotations,  even,  from  court  decisions. 
But  something  prevented  me  from  doing  this,  —  something 
in  his  manner,  which  was  neither  argumentative  nor  com 
bative. 

"That's  why  I  am  going  into  the  law,"  he  added.  "And 
I  intend  to  stay  in  it  if  I  can  keep  alive.  It's  a  great  chance 
for  me  —  for  all  of  us.  Aren't  you  at  the  Law  School?" 

I  nodded.  Once  more,  as  his  earnest  glance  fell  upon  me, 
came  that  suggestion  of  a  subtle,  inexplicable  link  between 
us;  but  before  I  could  reply,  steps  were  heard  behind  us, 
and  an  elderly  servant,  bareheaded,  was  seen  coming  down 
the  path. 

"Are  you  the  reporter?"  he  demanded  somewhat  im 
patiently  of  Krebs.  "If  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Dome,  you'd 
better  come  right  away.  He's  going  out  for  a  drive." 

For  a  while,  after  he  had  shaken  my  hand  and  departed, 
I  stood  in  the  snow,  looking  after  him.  .  .  . 


VIII 


ON  the  Wednesday  of  that  same  week  the  news  of  my 
father's  sudden  and  serious  illness  came  to  me  in  a  telegram, 
and  by  the  time  I  arrived  at  home  it  was  too  late  to  see  him 
again  alive.  It  was  my  first  experience  with  death,  and  what 
perplexed  me  continually  during  the  following  days  was  an 
inability  to  feel  the  loss  more  deeply.  When  a  child,  I  had 
been  easily  shaken  by  the  spectacle  of  sorrow.  Had  I,  dur 
ing  recent  years,  as  a  resultjof  a  discovery  that  emotions 
arising  from  human  relationships  lead  to  discomfort  and 
suffering,  deliberately  been  forming  a  shell,  until  now  I  was 
incapable  of  natural  feelings?  Of  late  I  had  seemed  closer 
to  my  father,  and  his  letters,  though  formal,  had  given  evi 
dence  of  his  affection ;  in  his  repressed  fashion  he  had  made 
it  clear  that  he  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  I  was  to 
practise  with  him.  Why  was  it  then,  as  I  gazed  upon  his 
fine  features  in  death,  that  I  experienced  no  intensity  of 
sorrow?  What  was  it  in  me  that  would  not  break  down? 
He  seemed  worn  and  tired,  yet  I  had  never  thought  of  him 
as  weary,  never  attributed  to  him  any  yearning.  And  now 
he  was  released. 

I  wondered  what  had  been  his  private  thoughts  about 
himself,  his  private  opinions  about  life;  and  when  I  reflect 
now  upon  my  lack  of  real  knowledge  at  five  and  twenty,  I 
am  amazed  at  the  futility  of  an  expensive  education  which 
had  failed  to  impress  upon  me  the  simple,  basic  fact  that 
life  was  struggle;  that  either  development  or  retrogression 
is  the  fate  of  all  men,  that  characters  are  never  completely 
made,  but  always  in  the  making.  I  had  merely  a  disconcert 
ing  glimpse  of  this  truth,  with  no  powers  of  formulation,  as 

118 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  119 

I  sat  beside  my  mother  in  the  bedroom,  where  every  article 
evoked  some  childhood  scene.  Here  was  the  dent  in  the 
walnut  foot-board  of  the  bed  made,  one  wintry  day,  by  the 
impact  of  my  box  of  blocks ;  the  big  arm-chair,  covered  with 
I  know  not  what  stiff  embroidery,  which  had  served  on  count 
less  occasions  as  a  chariot  driven  to  victory.  I  even  remem 
bered  how  every  Wednesday  morning  I  had  been  banished 
from  the  room,  which  had  been  so  large  a  part  of  my 
childhood  universe,  when  Ella,  the  housemaid,  had  flung 
open  all  its  windows  and  crowded  its  furniture  into  the 
hall. 

The"thought  of  my  wanderings  since  then  became  poignant, 
almost  terrifying.  The  room,  with  all  its  memories,  was  un 
changed.  How  safe  I  had  been  within  its  walls!  Why 
could  I  not  have  been  content  with  what  it  represented  ?  of 
tradition,  of  custom,  —  of  religion  ?  And  what  was  it  within 
me  that  had  lured  me  away  from  these  ? 

I  was  miserable,  indeed,  but  my  misery  was  not  of  the  kind 
I  thought  it  ought  to  be.  At  moments,  when  my  mother 
relapsed  into  weeping,  I  glanced  at  her  almost  in  wonder. 
Such  sorrow  as  hers  was  incomprehensible.  Once  she  sur 
prised  and  discomfited  me  by  lifting  her  head  and  gazing 
fixedly  at  me  through  her  tears. 

I  recall  certain  impressions  of  the  funeral.  There,  among 
the  pall-bearers,  was  my  Cousin  Robert  Breck,  tears  in  the 
furrows  of  his  cheeks.  Had  he  loved  my  father  more  than 
I  ?  The  sight  of  his  grief  moved  me  suddenly  and  strongly. 
...  It  seemed  an  age  since  I  had  worked  in  his  store,  and 
yet  here  he  was  still,  coming  to  town  every  morning  and 
returning  every  evening  to  Claremore,  loving  his  friends,  and 
mourning  them  one  by  one.  Was  this,  the  spectacle  pre 
sented  by  my  Cousin  Robert,  the  reward  of  earthly  exist 
ence?  Were  there  no  other  prizes  save  those  known  as 
greatness  of  character  and  depth  of  human  affections? 
Cousin  Robert  looked  worn  and  old.  The  other  pall-bearers, 
men  of  weight,  of  long  standing  in  the  community,  were 
aged,  too;  Mr.  Blackwood,  and  Mr.  Jules  Hollister;  and 


120  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

out  of  place,  somehow,  in  this  new  church  building.  It 
came  to  me  abruptly  that  the  old  order  was  gone,  —  had 
slipped  away  during  my  absence.  The  church  I  had  known 
in  boyhood  had  been  torn  down  to  make  room  for  a  business 
building  on  Boyne  Street;  the  edifice  in  which  I  sat  was 
expensive,  gave  forth  no  distinctive  note;  seemingly  tran 
sitory  with  its  hybrid  interior,  its  shiny  oak  and  blue  and  red 
organ-pipes,  betokening  a  compromised  and  weakened  faith. 
Nondescript,  likewise,  seemed  the  new  minister,  Mr.  Rand- 
lett,  as  he  prayed  unctuously  in  front  of  the  flowers  massed 
on  the  platform.  I  vaguely  resented  his  laudatory  refer 
ences  to  my  father. 

The  old  church,  with  its  severity,  had  actually  stood  for 
something.  It  was  the  Westminster  Catechism  in  wood 
and  stone,  and  Dr.  Pound  had  been  the  human  incarnation 
of  that  catechism,  the  fit  representative  of  a  wrathful  God,  — 
a  militant  shepherd  who  had  guarded  with  vigilance  his  re 
spectable  flock,  who  had  protested  vehemently  against  the 
sins  of  the  world  by  which  they  were  surrounded,  against 
the  "dogs,  and  sorcerers,  and  whoremongers,  and  murderers 
and  idolaters,  and  whosoever  loveth  and  maketh  a  lie." 
How  Dr.  Pound  would  have  put  the  emphasis  of  the  Ever 
lasting  into  those  words ! 

Against  what  was  Mr.  Randlett  protesting? 

My  glance  wandered  to  the  pews  which  held  the  committees 
from  various  organizations,  such  as  the  Chamber  of  Com 
merce  and  the  Bar  Association,  which  had  come  to  do  honour 
to  my  father.  And  there,  differentiated  from  the  others, 
I  saw  the  spruce,  alert  figure  of  Theodore  Watling.  He, 
too,  represented  a  new  type  and  a  new  note,  —  this  time 
a  forceful  note,  a  secular  note  that  had  not  belonged 
to  the  old  church,  and  seemed  likewise  anomalistic  in  the 
new.  .  .  . 

During  the  long,  slow  journey  in  the  carriage  to  the  ceme 
tery  my  mother  did  not  raise  her  veil.  It  was  not  until  she 
reached  out  and  seized  my  hand,  convulsively,  that  I  real 
ized  she"was  still  a  part  of  my  existence. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  121 


In  the  days  that  followed  I  became  aware  that  my  father's 
death  had  removed  a  restrictive  element,  that  I  was  free 
now  to  take  without  criticism  or  opposition  whatever  course 
in  life  I  might  desire.  It  may  be  that  I  had  apprehended 
even  then  that  his  professional  ideals  would  not  have  coin 
cided  with  my  own.  Mingled  with  this  sense  of  emancipa 
tion  was  a  curious  feeling  of  regret,  of  mourning  for  some 
thing  I  had  never  valued,  something  fixed  and  dependable 
for  which  he  had  stood,  a  rock  and  a  refuge  of  which  I  had 
never  availed  myself!  .  .  .  When  his  will  was  opened  it 
was  found  that  the  property  had  been  left  to  my  mother 
during  her  lifetime.  It  was  larger  than  I  had  thought,  — 
four  hundred  thousand  dollars,  shrewdly  invested,  for  the 
most  part,  in  city  real  estate.  My  father  had  been  very 
secretive  as  to  money  matters,  and  my  mother  had  no 
interest  in  them. 

Three  or  four  days  later  I  received  in  the  mail  a  type 
written  letter  signed  by  Theodore  Watling,  expressing  sym 
pathy  for  my  bereavement,  and  asking  me  to  drop  in  on  him, 
down  town,  before  I  should  leave  the  city.  In  contrast  to 
the  somewhat  dingy  offices  where  my  father  had  practised 
in  the  Blackwood  Block,  the  quarters  of  Watling,  Fowndes 
and  Ripon  on  the  eighth  floor  of  the  new  Durrett  Building 
were  modern  to  a  degree,  finished  in  oak  and  floored  with 
marble,  with  a  railed-off  space  where  young  women  with 
nimble  fingers  played  ceaselessly  on  typewriters.  One  of 
them  informed  me  that  Mr.  Watling  was  busy,  but  on  read 
ing  my  card  added  that  she  would  take  it  in.  Meanwhile, 
in  company  with  two  others  who  may  have  been  clients,  I 
waited.  This,  then,  was  what  it  meant  to  be  a  lawyer  of 
importance,  to  have,  like  a  Chesterfield,  an  ante-room  where 
clients  cooled  their  heels  and  awaited  one's  pleasure.  .  .  . 
The  young  woman  returned,  and  led  me  through  a  corridor 
to  a  door  on  which  was  painted  Mr.  Watling. 

I  recall  him  tilted  back  in  his  chair  in  a  debonnair  manner 


122  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

beside  his  polished  desk,  the  hint  of  a  smile  on  his  lips ;  and 
leaning  close  to  him  was  a  yellow,  owl-like  person  whose 
eyes,  as  they  turned  to  me,  gave  the  impression  of  having 
stared  for  years  into  hard,  artificial  lights.  Mr.  Watling 
rose  briskly. 

"How  are  you,  Hugh?"  he  said,  the  warmth  of  his  greeting 
tempered  by  just  the  note  of  condolence  suitable  to  my 
black  clothes.  "I'm  glad  you  came.  I  wanted  to  see  you 
before  you  went  back  to  Cambridge.  I  must  introduce  you 
to  Judge  Bering,  of  our  State  Supreme  Court.  Judge,  this 
is  Mr.  Paret's  boy." 

The  judge  looked  me  over  with  a  certain  slow  impressive- 
ness,  and  gave  me  a  soft  and  fleshy  hand. 

"  Glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Paret.  Your  father  was  a  great 
loss  to  our  bar,"  he  declared. 

I  detected  in  his  tone  and  manner  a  slight  reservation  that 
could  not  be  called  precisely  judicial  dignity;  it  was  as 
though,  in  these  few  words,  he  had  gone  to  the  limit  of  self- 
commitment  with  a  stranger  —  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
confidential  attitude  towards  Mr.  Watling  in  which  I  had 
surprised  him. 

"Judge,"  said  Mr.  Watling,  sitting  down  again,  "do  you 
recall  that  time  we  all  went  up  to  Mr.  Paret's  house  and  tried 
to  induce  him  to  run  for  mayor  ?  That  was  before  you  went 
on  the  lower  bench." 

The  judge  nodded  gloomily,  caressing  his  watch  chain, 
and  suddenly  rose  to  go. 

"That  will  be  all  right,  then?"  Mr.  Watling  inquired 
cryptically,  with  a  smile.  The  other  made  a  barely  percep 
tible  inclination  of  the  head  and  departed.  Mr.  Watling 
looked  at  me.  "He's  one  of  the  best  men  we  have  on  the 
bench  to-day,"  he  added.  There  was  a  trace  of  apology  in 
his  tone. 

He  talked  a  while  of  my  father,  to  whom,  so  he  said,  he 
had  looked  up  ever  since  he  had  been  admitted  to  the  bar. 

"  It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  me,  Hugh,  as  well  as  a  matter 
of  pride,"  he  said  cordially,  but  with  dignity,  "to  have 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  123 

Matthew  Paret's  son  in  my  office.  I  suppose  you  will  be 
wishing  to  take  your  mother  somewhere  this  summer,  but 
if  you  care  to  come  here  in  the  autumn,  you  will  be  welcome. 
You  will  begin,  of  course,  as  other  young  men  begin,  —  as  I 
began.  But  I  am  a  believer  in  blood,  and  I'll  be  glad  to 
have  you.  Mr.  Fowndes  and  Mr.  Ripon  feel  the  same  way." 
He  escorted  me  to  the  door  himself. 


Everywhere  I  went  during  that  brief  visit  home  I  was 
struck  by  change,  by  the  crumbling  and  decay  of  institutions 
that  once  had  held  me  in  thrall,  by  the  superimposition  of  a 
new  order  that  as  yet  had  assumed  no  definite  character. 
Some  of  the  old  landmarks  had  disappeared ;  there  were  new 
and  aggressive  office  buildings,  new  and  aggressive  residences, 
new  and  aggressive  citizens  who  lived  in  them,  and  of  whom 
my  mother  spoke  with  gentle  deprecation.  Even  Claremore, 
that  paradise  of  my  childhood,  had  grown  shrivelled  and 
shabby,  even  tawdry,  I  thought,  when  we  went  out  there  one 
Sunday  afternoon;  all  that  once  represented  the  magic 
word  "country"  had  vanished.  The  old  flat  piano,  made  in 
Philadelphia  ages  ago,  the  horsehair  chairs  and  sofa  had  been 
replaced  by  a  nondescript  furniture  of  the  sort  displayed 
behind  plate-glass  windows  of  the  city's  stores :  rocking-chairs 
on  stands,  upholstered  in  clashing  colours,  their  coiled  springs 
only  half  hidden  by  tassels,  and  "ornamental"  electric 
fixtures,  instead  of  the  polished  coal-oil  lamps.  Cousin 
Jenny  had  grown  white,  Willie  was  a  staid  bachelor,  Helen 
an  old  maid,  while  Mary  had  married  a  tall,  anaemic  young 
man  with  glasses,  Walter  Kinley,  whom  Cousin  Robert  had 
taken  into  the  store.  As  I  contemplated  the  Brecks  odd  ques 
tions  suggested  themselves :  did  honesty  and  warm-hearted 
ness  necessarily  accompany  a  lack  of  artistic  taste  ?  and  was 
virtue  its  own  reward,  after  all?  They  drew  my  mother 
into  the  house,  took  off  her  wraps,  set  her  down  in  the  most 
comfortable  rocker,  and  insisted  on  making  her  a  cup  of  tea. 


124  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

I  was  touched.  I  loved  them  still,  and  yet  I  was  conscious 
of  reservations  concerning  them.  They,  too,  seemed  a  little 
on  the  defensive  with  me,  and  once  in  a  while  Mary  was 
caustic  in  her  remarks. 

"I  guess  nothing  but  New  York  will  be  good  enough  for 
Hugh  now.  He'll  be  taking  Cousin  Sarah  away  from  us." 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear,"  said  my  mother,  gently,  "he's 
going  into  Mr.  Watling's  office  next  autumn." 

"Theodore  Watling?"  demanded  Cousin  Robert,  pausing 
in  his  carving. 

"Yes,  Robert.  Mr.  Watling  has  been  good  enough  to 
say  that  he  would  like  to  have  Hugh.  Is  there  anything  —  ?  " 

"Oh,  I'm  out  of  date,  Sarah,"  Cousin  Robert  replied, 
vigorously  severing  the  leg  of  the  turkey.  "  These  modern 
lawyers  are  too  smart  for  me.  Watling's  no  worse  than 
the  others,  I  suppose,  —  only  he's  got  more  ability." 

"I've  never  heard  anything  against  him,"  said  my  mother 
in  a  pained  voice.  "Only  the  other  day  McAlery  Willett 
congratulated  me  that  Hugh  was  going  to  be  with  him." 

"You  mustn't  mind  Robert,  Sarah,"  put  in  Cousin  Jenny, 
—  a  remark  reminiscent  of  other  days. 

"Dad  has  a  notion  that  his  generation  is  the  only  honest 
one,"  said  Helen,  laughingly,  as  she  passed  a  plate. 

I  had  gained  a  sense  of  superiority,  and  I  was  quite  in 
different  to  Cousin  Robert's  opinion  of  Mr.  Watling,  of 
modern  lawyers  in  general.  More  than  once  a  wave  of  self- 
congratulation  surged  through  me  that  I  had  possessed  the 
foresight  and  initiative  to  get  out  of  the  wholesale  grocery 
business  while  there  was  yet  time.  I  looked  at  Willie,  still 
freckled,  still  literal,  still  a  plodder,  at  Walter  Kinley,  —  and 
I  thought  of  the  drabness  of  their  lives;  at  Cousin  Robert 
himself  as  he  sat  smoking  his  cigar  in  the  bay-window  on  that 
dark  February  day,  and  suddenly  I  pitied  him.  The  suspi 
cion  struck  me  that  he  had  not  prospered  of  late,  and  this 
deepened  to  a  conviction  as  he  talked. 

"The  Republican  Party  is  going  to  the  dogs,"  he  asserted. 
"  It  used  to  be  an  honourable  party,  but  now  it  is  no  better 


'LET  ME  INTRODUCE  YOU   TO  JUDGE  BERING  OP  OUR  STATE   SUPREME 

COURT.'  ' 


A^  FAR  COUNTRY  125 

than  the  other.  Politics  are  only  conducted,  now,  for  the 
purpose  of  making  unscrupulous  men  rich,  sir.  For  years 
I  furnished  this  city  with  good  groceries,  if  I  do  say  it  myself. 
I  took  a  pride  in  the  fact  that  the  inmates  of  the  hospitals, 
yes,  and  the  dependent  poor  in  the  city's  institutions,  should 
have  honest  food.  You  can  get  anything  out  of  the  city  if 
you  are  willing  to  pay  the  politicians  for  it.  I  lost  my  city 
contracts.  Why?  Because  I  refused  to  deal  with  scoun 
drels.  Weill  and  Company  and  other  unscrupulous  up 
starts  are  willing  to  do  so,  and  poison  the  poor  and  the  sick 
with  adulterated  groceries !  The  first  thing  I  knew  was  that 
the  city  auditor  was  holding  back  my  bills  for  supplies,  and 
paying  Weill's.  That's  what  politics  and  business,  yes,  sir, 
and  the  law,  have  come  to  in  these  days.  If  a  man  wants  to 
succeed,  he  must  turn  into  a  rascal." 

I  was  not  shocked,  but  I  was  silent,  uncomfortable,  wishing 
that  it  were  time  to  take  the  train  back  to  the  city.  Cousin 
Robert's  face  was  more  worn  than  I  had  thought,  and  I 
contrasted  him  inevitably  with  the  forceful  person  who  used 
to  stand,  in  his  worn  alpaca  coat,  on  the  pavement  in  front 
of  his  store,  greeting  with  clear-eyed  content  his  fellow- 
merchants  of  the  city.  Willie  Breck,  too,  was  silent,  and 
Walter  Kinley  took  off  his  glasses  and  wiped  them.  In  the 
meanwhile  Helen  had  left  the  group  in  which  my  mother 
sat,  and,  approaching  us,  laid  her  hands  on  her  father's 
shoulders. 

"Now,  dad,"  she  said,  in  affectionate  remonstrance, 
"you're  excited  about  politics  again,  and  you  know  it  isn't 
good  for  you.  And  besides,  they're  not  worth  it." 

"You're  right,  Helen,"  he  replied.  Under  the  pressure 
of  her  hands  he  made  a  strong  effort  to  control  himself,  and 
turned  to  address  my  mother  across  the  room. 

"I'm  getting  to  be  a  crotchety  old  man,"  he  said.  "It's 
a  good  thing  I  have  a  daughter  to  remind  me  of  it." 

"It  is  a,  good  thing,  Robert,"  said  my  mother. 

During  the  rest  of  our  visit  he  seemed  to  have  recovered 
something  of  his  former  spirits  and  poise,  taking  refuge  in 


126  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

the  past.  They  talked  of  their  own  youth,  of  families  whose 
houses  had  been  landmarks  on  the  Second  Bank. 

"I'm  worried  about  your  Cousin  Robert,  Hugh,"  my 
mother  confided  to  me,  when  we  were  at  length  seated  in 
the  train.  "I've  heard  rumours  that  things  are  not  so  well 
,  at  the  store  as  they  might  be."  We  looked  out  at  the  winter 
'  landscape,  so  different  from  that  one  which  had  thrilled  every 
fibre  of  my  being  in  the  days  when  the  railroad  on  which  we 
travelled  had  been  a  winding  narrow  gauge.  The  orchards 
—  those  that  remained  —  were  bare ;  stubble  pricked  the 
frozen  ground  where  tassels  had  once  waved  in  the  hot, 
summer  wind.  We  flew  by  row  after  row  of  ginger-bread, 
suburban  houses  built  on  "villa  plots,"  and  I  read  in  large 
letters  on  a  hideous  sign-board,  "Woodbine  Park." 

"Hugh,  have  you  ever  heard  anything  against  —  Mr. 
Watling?" 

"No,  mother,"  I  said.  "So  far  as  I  knew,  he  is  very  much 
looked  up  to  by  lawyers  and  business  men.  He  is  counsel, 
I  believe,  for  Mr.  Blackwood's  street  car  line  on  Boyne 
Street.  And  I  told  you,  I  believe,  that  I  met  him  once  at 
Mr.  Kyme's." 

"Poor  Robert!"  she  sighed.  "I  suppose  business  trouble 
does  make  one  bitter,  —  I've  seen  it  so  often.  But  I  never 
imagined  that  it  would  overtake  Robert,  and  at  his  time  of 
life !  It  is  an  old  and  respected  firm,  and  we  have  always  had 
a  pride  in  it."  .  .  . 

That  night,  when  I  was  going  to  bed,  it  was  evident  that 
the  subject  was  still  in  her  mind.  She  clung  to  my  hand  a 
moment. 

"I,  too,  am  afraid  of  the  new,  Hugh,"  she  said,  a  little 
tremulously.  "We  all  grow  so,  as  age  comes  on." 

"But  you  are  not  old,  mother,"  I  protested. 

"I  have  a  feeling,  since  your  father  has  gone,  that  I  have 
lived  my  life,  my  dear,  though  I'd  like  to  stay  long  enough  to 
see  you  happily  married  —  to  have  grandchildren.  I  was 
not  young  when  you  were  born."  And  she  added,  after  a 
little  while,  "I  know  nothing  about  business  affairs,  and 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  127 

now  —  now  that  your  father  is  no  longer  here,  sometimes 
I'm  afraid— " 

"Afraid  of  what,  mother?" 

She  tried  to  smile  at  me  through  her  tears.  We  were  in 
the  old  sitting-room,  surrounded  by  the  books. 

"I  know  it's  foolish,  and  it  isn't  that  I  don't  trust  you. 
I  know  that  the  son  of  your  father  couldn't  do  anything 
that  was  not  honourable.  And  yet  I  am  afraid  of  what  the 
world  is  becoming.  The  city  is  growing  so  fast,  and  so  many 
new  people  are  coming  in.  Things  are  not  the  same.  Robert 
is  right,  there.  And  I  have  heard  your  father  say  the  same 
thing.  Hugh,  promise  me  that  you  will  try  to  remember 
always  what  he  was,  and  what  he  would  wish  you  to  be ! " 

"I  will,  mother,"  I  answered.  "But  I  think  you  would 
find  that  Cousin  Robert  exaggerates  a  little,  makes  things 
seem  worse  than  they  really  are.  Customs  change,  you 
know.  And  politics  were  never  —  well  —  Sunday  schools." 
I,  too,  smiled  a  little.  "Father  knew  that.  And  he  would 
never  take  an  active  part  in  them." 

"He  was  too  fine!"  she  exclaimed. 

"And  now,"  I  continued,  "Cousin  Robert  has  happened 
to  come  in  contact  with  them  through  business.  That  is 
what  has  made  the  difference  in  him.  Before,  he  always 
knew  they  were  corrupt,  but  he  rarely  thought  about  them." 

"Hugh,"  she  said  suddenly,  after  a  pause,  "you  must 
remember  one  thing,  —  that  you  can  afford  to  be  indepen 
dent.  I  thank  God  that  your  father  has  provided  for  that  I" 


I  was  duly  admitted,  the  next  autumn,  to  the  bar  of  my 
own  state,  and  was  assigned  to  a  desk  in  the  offices  of  Watling, 
Fowndes  and  Ripon.  Larry  Weed  was  my  immediate  senior 
among  the  apprentices,  and  Larry  was  a  hero-worshipper. 
I  can  see  him  now.  He  suggested  a  bullfrog  as  he  sat  in 
the  little  room  we  shared  in  common,  his  arms  akimbo  over 
a  law  book,  his  little  legs  doubled  under  him,  his  round  eyes 


128  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

fixed  expectantly  on  the  doorway.    And  even  if  I  had  not 
been  aware  of  my  good  fortune  in  being  connected  with  such 
a  firm  as  Theodore  Watling's,  Larry  would  shortly  have 
brought  it  home  to  me.     During  those  weeks  when  I  was 
making  my  first  desperate  attempts  at  briefing  up  the  law  I 
was  sometimes  interrupted  by  his  exclamations  when  certain 
.  figures  went  by  in  the  corridor. 
*      "Say,  Hugh,  do  you  know  who  that  was?" 

"No." 

"Miller  Gorse." 

"Who's  he?" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  never  heard  of  Miller  Gorse  ? " 

"I've  been  away  a  long  time,"  I  would  answer  apologeti 
cally.  A  person  of  some  importance  among  my  contempo 
raries  at  Harvard,  I  had  looked  forward  to  a  residence  in  my 
native  city  with  the  complacency  of  one  who  has  seen  some 
thing  of  the  world,  —  only  to  find  that  I  was  the  least  in 
the  new  kingdom.  And  it  was  a  kingdom.  Larry  opened 
up  to  me  something  of  the  significance  and  extent  of  it, 
something  of  the  identity  of  the  men  who  controlled  it. 

"Miller  Gorse,"  he  said  impressively,  "is  the  counsel  for 
the  railroad." 

"What  railroad?  You  mean  the  — "I  was  adding,  when 
he  interrupted  me  pityingly. 

"After  you've  been  here  a  while  you'll  find  out  there's 
only  one  railroad  in  this  state,  so  far  as  politics  are  concerned. 
The  Ashuela  and  Northern,  the  Lake  Shore  and  the  others 
don't  count." 

I  refrained  from  asking  any  more  questions  at  that  time, 
but  afterwards  I  always  thought  of  the  Railroad  as  spelled 
with  a  capital. 

"Miller  Gorse  isn't  forty  yet,"  Larry  told  me  on  another 
occasion.  "That's  doing  pretty  well  for  a  man  who  comes 
near  running  this  state." 

For  the  sake  of  acquiring  knowledge,  I  endured  Mr.  Weed's 
patronage.  I  inquired  how  Mr.  Gorse  ran  the  state. 

"Oh,  you'll  find  out  soon  enough,"  he  assured  me. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  129 

"But  Mr.  Barbour's  president  of  the  Railroad." 
"Sure.    Once  in  a  while  they  take  something  up  to  him, 
but  as  a  rule  he  leaves  things  to  Gorse." 

Whereupon  I  resolved  to  have  a  good  look  at  Mr.  Gorse 
at  the  first  opportunity.  ,  One  day  Mr.  Watling  sent  out 
for  some  papers.  *>•-•• 

"He's  in  there  now,"  said  Larry.  "You  take  'em." 
"In  there"  meant  Mr.  Watling's  sanctum.  And  in  there 
he  was.  I  had  only  a  glance  at  the  great  man,  for,  with  a 
kindly  but  preoccupied  "Thank  you,  Hugh,"  Mr.  Watling 
took  the  papers  and  dismissed  me.  Heaviness,  blackness 
and  impassivity,  —  these  were  the  impressions  of  Mr.  Gorse 
which  I  carried  away  from  that  first  meeting.  The  very 
solidity  of  his  flesh  seemed  to  suggest  the  solidity  of  his 
position.  Such,  say  the  psychologists,  is  the  effect  of 
prestige. 

I  remember  well  an  old-fashioned  picture  puzzle  in  one  of 
my  boyhood  books.  The  scene  depicted  was  to  all  appear 
ances  a  sylvan,  peaceful  one,  with  two  happy  lovers  seated 
on  a  log  beside  a  brook ;  but  presently,  as  one  gazed  at  the 
picture,  the  head  of  an  animal  stood  forth  among  the  branches, 
and  then  the  body ;  more  animals  began  to  appear,  bit  by  bit ; 
a  tiger,  a  bear,  a  lion,  a  jackal,  a  fox,  —  until  at  last,  when 
ever  I  looked  at  the  page,  I  did  not  see  the  sylvan  scene  at 
all,  but  only  the  predatory  beasts  of  the  forest.  So,  one 
by  one,  the  figures  of  the  real  rulers  of  the  city  superimposed 
themselves  for  me  upon  the  simple  and  democratic  design 
of  Mayor,  Council,  Board  of  Aldermen,  Police  Force,  etc., 
that  filled  the  eye  of  a  naive  and  trusting  electorate  which 
fondly  imagined  that  it  had  something  to  say  in  government. 
Miller  Gorse  was  one  of  these  rulers  behind  the  screen,  and 
Adolf  Scherer,  of  the  Boyne  Iron  Works,  another;  there 
was  Leonard  Dickinson  of  the  Corn  National  Bank ;  Fred 
erick  Grierson,  becoming  wealthy  in  city  real  estate ;  Judah 
B.  Tallant,  who,  though  outlawed  socially,  was  deferred  to 
as  the  owner  of  the  Morning  Era;  and  even  Ralph  Ham- 
bleton,  rapidly  superseding  the  elderly  and  conservative 


130  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Mr.  Lord,  who  had  hitherto  managed  the  great  Ham- 
bleton  estate.  Ralph  seemed  to  have  become,  in  a 
somewhat  gnostic  manner,  a  full-fledged  financier.  Not 
having  studied  law,  he  had  been  home  for  four  years  when  I 
became  a  legal  fledgling,  and  during  the  early  days  of  my 
apprenticeship  I  was  beholden  to  him  for  many  "eye  open 
ers"  concerning  the  conduct  of  great  affairs.  I  remember 
him  sauntering  into  my  room  one  morning  when  Larry 
Weed  had  gone  out  on  an  errand. 

"Hello,  Hughie,"  he  said,  with  his  air  of  having  nothing 
to  do.  "Grinding  it  out?  Where's  Watling?" 

"Isn't  he  in  his  office?" 

"No." 

"Well,  what  can  we  do  for  you?"  I  asked. 

Ralph  grinned. 

"Perhaps  I'll  tell  you  when  you're  a  little  older.  You're 
too  young."  And  he  sank  down  into  Larry  Weed's  chair, 
his  long  legs  protruding  on  the  other  side  of  the  table. 
"It's  a  matter  of  taxes.  Some  time  ago  I  found  out  that 
Dickinson  and  Tallant  and  others  I  could  mention  were 
paying  a  good  deal  less  on  their  city  property  than  we  are. 
We  don't  propose  to  do  it  any  more  —  that's  all." 

"How  can  Mr.  Watling  help  you?"  I  inquired. 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  giving  you  a  few  tips  about  your  pro 
fession,  Hughie.  I'm  going  to  get  Watling  to  fix  it  up  with 
the  City  Hall  gang.  Old  Lord  doesn't  like  it,  I'll  admit, 
and  when  I  told  him  we  had  been  contributing  to  the  city 
long  enough,  that  I  proposed  swinging  into  line  with  other 
property  holders,  he  began  to  blubber  about  disgrace  and 
what  my  grandfather  would  say  if  he  were  alive.  Well, 
he  isn't  alive.  A  good  deal  of  water  has  flowed  under  the 
bridges  since  his  day.  It's  a  mere  matter  of  business,  of 
getting  your  respectable  firm  to  retain  a  City  Hall  attorney 
to  fix  it  up  with  the  assessor." 

"How  about  the  penitentiary?"  I  ventured,  not  too 
seriously. 

"I  shan't  go  to  the  penitentiary,  neither  will   Watling. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  131 

What  I  do  is  to  pay  a  lawyer's  fee.    There  isn't  anything 
criminal  in  that,  is  there  ?  " 

For  some  time  after  Ralph  had  departed  I  sat  reflecting 
upon  this  new  knowledge,  and  there  came  into  my  mind  the 
bitterness  of  Cousin  Robert  Breck  against  this  City  Hall 
gang,  and  his  remarks  about  lawyers.  I  recalled  the  tone 
in  which  he  had  referred  to  Mr.  Watling.  But  Ralph's 
philosophy  easily  triumphed.  Why  not  be  practical,  and 
become  master  of  a  situation  which  one  had  not  made,  and 
could  not  alter,  instead  of  being  overwhelmed  by  it  ?  Need 
less  to  say,  I  did  not  mention  the  conversation  to  Mr.  Wat- 
ling,  nor  did  he  dwindle  in  my  estimation.  These  necessary 
transactions  did  not  interfere  in  any  way  with  his  personal 
relationships,  and  his  days  were  filled  with  kindnesses.  And 
was  not  Mr.  Ripon,  the  junior  partner,  one  of  the  evangelical 
lights  of  the  community,  conducting  advanced  Bible  classes 
every  week  in  the  Church  of  the  Redemption  ?  .  .  .  The 
unfolding  of  mysteries  kept  me  alert.  And  I  understood 
that,  if  I  was  to  succeed,  certain  esoteric  knowledge  must 
be  acquired,  as  it  were,  unofficially.  I  kept  my  eyes  and 
ears  open,  and  applied  myself,  with  all  industry,  to  the 
routine  tasks  with  which  every  young  man  in  a  large  legal 
firm  is  familiar.  I  recall  distinctly  my  pride  when,  the  Board 
of  Aldermen  having  passed  an  ordinance  lowering  the  water 
rates,  I  was  intrusted  with  the  responsibility  of  going  before 
the  court  in  behalf  of  Mr.  Ogilvy's  water  company,  obtaining  ( 
a  temporary  restricting  order  preventing  the  ordinance  from  \ 
going  at  once  into  effect.  Here  was  an  affair  in  point.  Were 
it  not  for  lawyers  of  the  calibre  of  Watling,  Fowndes  and 
Ripon,  hard-earned  private  property  would  soon  be  confis 
cated  by  the  rapacious  horde.  Once  in  a  while  I  was  made 
aware  that  Mr.  Watling  had  his  eye  on  me. 

"Well,  Hugh,"  he  would  say,  "how  are  you  getting  along? 
That's  right,  stick  to  it,  and  after  a  while  we'll  hand  the 
drudgery  over  to  somebody  else." 

He  possessed  the  supreme  quality  of  a  leader  of  men  in 
that  he  took  pains  to  inform  himself  concerning  the  work  of 


132  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

the  least  of  his  subordinates ;  and  he  had  the  gift  of  putting 
fire  into  a  young  man  by  a  word  or  a  touch  of  the  hand  on 
the  shoulder.  It  was  not  difficult  for  me,  therefore,  to  com 
prehend  Larry  Weed's  hero-worship,  the  loyalty  of  other 
members  of  the  firm  or  of  those  occupants  of  the  office  whom 
I  have  not  mentioned.  My  first  impression  of  him,  which  I 
had  got  at  Jerry  Kyme's,  deepened  as  time  went  on,  and  I 
readily  shared  the  belief  of  those  around  me  that  his  legal 
talents  easily  surpassed  those  of  any  of  his  contemporaries. 
I  can  recall,  at  this  time,  several  noted  cases  in  the  city  when 
I  sat  in  court  listening  to  his  arguments  with  thrills  of 
pride.  He  made  us  all  feel  —  no  matter  how  humble  may 
have  been  our  contributions  to  the  preparation  —  that 
we  had  a  share  in  his  triumphs.  We  remembered  his  manner 
with  judges  and  juries,  and  strove  to  emulate  it.  He  spoke 
as  if  there  could  be  no  question  as  to  his  being  right  as  to 
the  law  and  the  facts,  and  yet,  in  some  subtle  way  that  baffled 
analysis,  managed  not  to  antagonize  the  court.  Victory  was 
in  the  air  in  that  office.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  there  were 
not  defeats ;  but  frequently  these  defeats,  by  resourcefulness, 
by  a  never-say-die  spirit,  by  a  consummate  knowledge,  not 
only  of  the  law,  but  of  other  things  at  which  I  have  hinted, 
were  turned  into  ultimate  victories.  We  fought  cases  from 
one  court  to  another,  until  our  opponents  were  worn  out  or 
t!ie  decision  was  reversed.  We  won,  and  that  spirit  of  win 
ning  got  into  the  blood.  What  was  most  impressed  on  me  in 
those  early  years,  I  think,  was  the  discovery  that  there  was 
always  a  path  —  if  one  were  clever  enough  to  find  it  —  from 
one  terrace  to  the  next  higher.  Staying  power  was  the  most 
prized  of  all  the  virtues.  One  could  always,  by  adroitness, 
compel  a  legal  opponent  to  fight  the  matter  out  all  over 
again  on  new  ground,  or  at  least  on  ground  partially  new.  If 
the  Court  of  Appeals  should  fail  one,  there  was  the  Supreme 
Court;  there  was  the  opportunity,  also,  to  shift  from  the 
state  to  the  federal  courts;  and  likewise  the  much-prized 
device  known  as  a  change  of  venue,  when  a  judge  was  sup 
posed  to  be  "prejudiced." 


IX 


As  my  apprenticeship  advanced  I  grew  more  and  more  to 
separate  the  inhabitants  of  our  city  into  two  kinds,  the 
efficient,  who  were  served,  and  the  inefficient,  who  were 
neglected ;  but  the  mental  process  of  which  the  classification 
was  the  result  was  not  so  deliberate  as  may  be  supposed. 
Sometimes,  when  an  important  client  would  get  into  trouble, 
the  affair  took  me  into  the  police  court,  where  I  saw  the  riff 
raff  of  the  city  penned  up,  waiting  to  have  justice  doled  out 
to  them :  weary  women  who  had  spent  the  night  in  cells,  in 
different  now  as  to  the  front  they  presented  to  the  world, 
the  finery  ruffled  that  they  had  tended  so  carefully  to 
catch  the  eyes  of  men  on  the  darkened  streets;  brazen 
young  girls,  who  blazed  forth  defiance  to  all  order ;  derelict 
men,  sodden  and  hopeless,  with  scrubby  beards;  shifty- 
looking  burglars  and  pickpockets.  All  these  I  beheld,  at 
first  with  twinges  of  pity,  later  to  mass  them  with  the  ugly 
and  inevitable  with  whom  society  had  to  deal  somehow. 
Lawyers,  after  all,  must  be  practical  men.  I  came  to  know 
the  justices  of  these  police  courts,  as  well  as  other  judges. 
And  underlying  my  acquaintance  with  all  of  them  was  the 
knowledge  —  though  not  on  the  threshold  of  my  conscious 
ness —  that  they  depended  for  their  living,  every  man 
of  them,  those  who  were  appointed  and  those  who  were 
elected,  upon  a  political  organization  which  derived  its 
sustenance  from  the  element  whence  came  our  clients. 
Thus  by  degrees  the  sense  of  belonging  to  a  special  priest 
hood  had  grown  on  me. 

I  recall  an  experience  with  that  same  Mr.  Nathan  Weill, 
the  wholesale  grocer  of  whose  commerce  with  the  City  Hall 

133 


134  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

my  Cousin  Robert  Breck  had  so  bitterly  complained.  Late 
one  afternoon  Mr.  Weill's  carriage  ran  over  a  child  on  its 
way  up-town  through  one  of  the  poorer  districts.  The 
parents,  naturally,  were  frantic,  and  the  coachman  was 
arrested.  This  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  I  was  alone 
in  the  office  when  the  telephone  rang.  Hurrying  to  the 
police  station,  I  found  Mr.  Weill  in  a  state  of  excitement  and 
abject  fear,  for  an  ugly  crowd  had  gathered  outside. 

"Could  not  Mr.  Watling  or  Mr.  Fowndes  come?"  de 
manded  the  grocer. 

With  an  inner  contempt  for  the  layman's  state  of  mind 
on  such  occasions  I  assured  him  of  my  competency  to  handle 
the  case.  He  was  impressed,  I  think,  by  the  sergeant's 
deference,  who  knew  what  it  meant  to  have  such  an  office  as 
ours  interfere  with  the  affair.  I  called  up  the  prosecuting 
attorney,  who  sent  to  Monahan's  saloon,  close  by,  and  pro 
cured  a  release  for  the  coachman  on  his  own  recognizance,  — 
one  of  many  signed  in  blank  and  left  there  by  the  justice  for 
privileged  cases.  The  coachman  was  hustled  out  by  a  back 
door,  and  the  crowd  dispersed. 

The  next  morning,  while  a  score  or  more  of  delinquents 
sat  in  .the  anxious  seats,  Justice  Garry  recognized  me  and 
gave  me  precedence.  And  Mr.  Weill,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
paid  his  fine. 

"Mr.  Paret,  is  it?"  he  asked,  as  we  stood  together  for  a 
moment  on  the  sidewalk  outside  the  court.  "  You  have  man 
aged  this  well.  I  will  remember." 

He  was  sued,  of  course.  When  he  came  to  the  office  he 
insisted  on  discussing  the  case  with  Mr.  Watling,  who  sent 
for  me. 

"That  is  a  bright  young  man,"  Mr.  Weill  declared,  shak 
ing  my  hand.  "He  will  get  on." 

"Some  day,"  said  Mr.  Watling,  "he  may  save  you  a  lot 
of  money,  Weill." 

"When  my  friend  Mr.  Watling  is  United  States  Senator, 
—  eh?" 

Mr.  Watling  laughed.     "Before  that,  I  hope.     I  advise 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  135 

you  to  compromise  this  suit,  Weill,"  he  added.  "How  would 
a  thousand  dollars  strike  you?  I've  had  Paret  look  up  the 
case,  and  he  tells  me  the  little  girl  has  had  to  have  an  opera 
tion." 

"A  thousand  dollars!"  cried  the  grocer.  "What  right 
have  these  people  to  let  their  children  play  on  the  streets  ? 
It's  an  outrage." 

"Where  else  have  the  children  to  play?"  Mr.  Watling 
touched  his  arm.  "Weill,"  he  said  gently,  "suppose  it  had 
been  your  little  girl?"  The  grocer  pulled  out  his  handker 
chief  and  mopped  his  bald  forehead.  But  he  rallied  a  little. 

"You  fight  these  damage  cases  for  the  street  railroads  all 
through  the  courts." 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Watling  agreed,  "but  there  a  principle  is 
involved.  If  the  railroads  once  got  into  the  way  of  paying 
damages  for  every  careless  employee,  they  would  soon  be 
bankrupt  through  blackmail.  But  here  you  have  a  child 
whose  father  is  a  poor  janitor  and  can't  afford  sickness.  And 
your  coachman,  I  imagine,  will  be  more  particular  in  the 
future." 

In  the  end  Mr.  Weill  made  out  a  cheque  and  departed  in  a 
good  humour,  convinced  that  he  was  well  out  of  the  matter. 
Here  was  one  of  many  instances  I  could  cite  of  Mr.  Watling's 
tenderness  of  heart.  I  felt,  moreover,  as  if  he  had  done  me  a 
personal  favour,  since  it  was  I  who  had  recommended  the 
compromise.  For  I  had  been  to  the  hospital  and  had  seen 
the  child  on  the  cot,  —  a  dark  little  thing,  lying  still  in  her 
pain,  with  the  bewildered  look  of  a  wounded  animal.  .  .  . 

Not  long  after  this  incident  of  Mr.  Weill's  damage  suit  I 
obtained  a  more  or  less  definite  promotion  by  the  departure 
of  Larry  Weed.  He  had  suddenly  developed  a  weakness  of 
the  lungs.  Mr.  Watling  got  him  a  place  in  Denver,  and 
paid  his  expenses  west. 


The  first  six  or  seven  years  I  spent  in  the  office  of  Watling, 
Fowndes  and  Ripon  were  of  importance  to  my  future  careerf 


136  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

but  there  is  little  to  relate  of  them.  I  was  absorbed  not  only 
in  learning  law,  but  in  acquiring  that  esoteric  knowledge  at 
which  I  have  hinted  —  not  to  be  had  from  my  seniors  — 
and  which  I  was  convinced  was  indispensable  to  a  successful 
and  lucrative  practice.  My  former  comparison  of  the  or 
ganization  of  our  city  to  a  picture  puzzle  wherein  the  dominat 
ing  figures  become  visible  only  after  long  study  is  rather 
inadequate.  A  better  analogy  would  be  the  human  anat 
omy  :  we  lawyers,  of  course,  were  the  brains ;  the  financial 
and  industrial  interests  the  body,  helpless  without  us;  the 
City  Hall  politicians,  the  stomach  that  must  continually  be 
fed.  All  three,  law,  politics  and  business,  were  interde 
pendent,  united  by  a  nervous  system  too  complex  to  be 
developed  here.  In  these  years,  though  I  worked  hard  and 
often  late,  I  still  found  time  for  convivialities,  for  social 
gaieties,  yet  little  by  little  without  realizing  the  fact,  I  was 
losing  zest  for  the  companionship  of  my  former  intimates. 
My  mind  was  becoming  polarized  by  the  contemplation  of 
one  object,  success,  and  to  it  human  ties  were  unconsciously 
being  sacrificed. 

Tom  Peters  began  to  feel  this,  even  at  a  time  when  I 
believed  myself  still  to  be  genuinely  fond  of  him.  Con 
sidering  our  respective  temperaments  in  youth,  it  is  curious 
that  he  should  have  been  the  first  to  fall  in  love  and  marry. 
One  day  he  astonished  me  by  announcing  his  engagement  to 
Susan  Blackwood. 

"That  ends  the  liquor,  Hughie,"  he  told  me,  beamingly. 
"I  promised  her  I'd  eliminate  it." 

He  did  eliminate  it,  save  for  mild  relapses  on  festive  oc 
casions.  A  more  seemingly  incongruous  marriage  could 
scarcely  be  imagined,  and  yet  it  was  a  success  from  the  start. 
From  a  slim,  silent,  self-willed  girl  Susan  had  grown  up  into 
a  tall,  rather  rawboned  and  energetic  young  woman.  She 
was  what  we  called  in  those  days  "intellectual,"  and  had  gone 
in  for  kindergartens,  and  after  her  marriage  she  turned  out 
to  be  excessively  domestic;  practising  her  theories,  with 
entire  success,  upon  a  family  that  showed  a  tendency  to 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  137 

increase  at  an  alarming  rate.  Tom,  needless  to  say,  did  not 
become  intellectual.  He  settled  down  —  prematurely,  I 
thought  —  into  what  is  known  as  a  family  man,  curiously 
content  with  the  income  he  derived  from  the  commission 
business  and  with  life  in  general;  and  he  developed  a 
somewhat  critical  view  of  the  tendencies  of  the  civili 
zation  by  which  he  was  surrounded.  Susan  held  it  also, 
but  she  said  less  about  it.  In  the  comfortable  but  unpre 
tentious  house  they  rented  on  Cedar  Street  we  had 
many  discussions,  after  the  babies  had  been  put  to  bed  and 
the  door  of  the  living-room  closed,  in  order  that  our  voices 
might  not  reach  the  nursery.  Perry  Blackwood,  now  Tom's 
brother-in-law,  was  often  there.  He,  too,  had  lapsed  into 
what  I  thought  was  an  odd  conservatism.  Old  Josiah,  his 
father,  being  dead,  he  occupied  himself  mainly  with  looking 
after  certain  family  interests,  among  which  was  the  Boyne 
Street  car  line.  Among  "business  men"  he  was  already 
getting  the  reputation  of  being  a  little  difficult  to  deal  with. 
I  was  often  the  subject  of  their  banter,  and  presently  I  began 
to  suspect  that  they  regarded  my  career  and  beliefs  with  some 
concern.  This  gave  me  no  uneasiness,  though  at  tunes  I 
lost  my  temper.  I  realized  their  affection  for  me;  but 
privately  I  regarded  them  as  lacking  in  ambition,  in  force,  in 
the  fighting  qualities  necessary  for  achievement  in  this 
modern  age.  Perhaps,  unconsciously,  I  pitied  them  a  little. 

"How  is  Judah  B.  to-day,  Hughie?"  Tom  would  inquire. 
"I  hear  you've  put  him  up  for  the  Boyne  Club,  now  that 
Mr.  Watling  has  got  him  out  of  that  libel  suit." 

"Carter  Ives  is  dead,"  Perry  would  add,  sarcastically, 
"let  bygones  be  bygones." 

It  was  well  known  that  Mr.  Tallant,  in  the  early  days  of 
his  newspaper,  had  blackmailed  Mr.  Ives  out  of  some  hundred 
thousand  dollars.  And  that  this,  more  than  any  other  act, 
stood  in  the  way,  with  certain  recalcitrant  gentlemen,  of  his 
highest  ambition,  membership  in  the  Boyne. 

"The  trouble  with  you  fellows  is  that  you  refuse  to  deal 
with  conditions  as  you  find  them,"  I  retorted.  "We  didn't 


138  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

make  them,  and  we  can't  change  them.  Tallant's  a  factor 
in  the  business  life  of  this  city,  and  he  has  to  be  counted 
with." 

Tom  would  shake  his  head  exasperatingly. 

"Why  don't  you  get  after  Ralph?"  I  demanded.  "He 
doesn't  antagonize  Tallant,  either." 

"  Ralph's  hopeless,"  said  Tom.  "  He  was  born  a  pirate,  — 
you  weren't,  Hughie.  We  think  there's  a  chance  for  his 
salvation,  don't  we,  Perry?" 

I  refused  to  accept  the  remark  as  flattering. 

Another  object  of  their  assaults  was  Frederick  Grierson, 
who  by  this  time  had  emerged  from  obscurity  as  a  small 
dealer  in  real  estate  into  a  manipulator  of  blocks  and  corners. 

"I  suppose  you  think  it's  a  lawyer's  business  to  demand  an 
ethical  bill  of  health  of  every  client,"  I  said.  "I  won't 
stand  up  for  all  of  Tallant's  career,  of  course,  but  Mr.  Watling 
has  a  clear  right  to  take  his  cases.  As  for  Grierson,  it  seems 
to  me  that's  a  matter  of  giving  a  dog  a  bad  name.  Just 
because  his  people  weren't  known  here,  and  because  he  has 
worked  up  from  small  beginnings.  To  get  down  to  hard-pan, 
you  fellows  don't  believe  in  democracy,  —  in  giving  every 
man  a  chance  to  show  what's  in  him." 

"  Democracy  is  good ! "  exclaimed  Perry.  "  If  the  kind  of 
thing  we're  coming  to  is  democracy,  God  save  the  state !"  .  .  . 

On  the  other  hand  I  found  myself  drawing  closer  to  Ralph 
Hambleton,  sometimes  present  at  these  debates,  as  the  only  one 
of  my  boyhood  friends  who  seemed  to  be  able  to  "  deal  with 
conditions  as  he  found  them."  Indeed,  he  gave  one  the 
impression  that,  if  he  had  had  the  making  of  them,  he  would 
not  have  changed  them. 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  expect ? "  I  once  heard  him  inquire 
with  good-natured  contempt.  "Business  isn't  charity,  it's 
war." 

"There  are  certain  things,"  maintained  Perry,  stoutly, 
"that  gentlemen  won't  do." 

"Gentlemen!"  exclaimed  Ralph,  stretching  his  slim  six 
feet  two.  We  were  sitting  in  the  Boyne  Club.  "  It's  ungen- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  139 

tlemanly  to  kill,  or  burn  a  town  or  sink  a  ship,  but  we  keep 
armies  and  navies  for  the  purpose.  For  a  man  with  a  good 
mind,  Perry,  you  show  a  surprising  inability  to  think  things 
out  to  a  logical  conclusion.  What  the  deuce  is  competition, 
when  you  come  down  to  it  ?  Christianity  ?  Not  by  a  long 
shot!  If  our  nations  are  slaughtering  men  and  starving 
populations  in  other  countries,  —  are  carried  on,  in  fact,  for 
the  sake  of  business,  if  our  churches  are  filled  with  business 
men  and  our  sky  pilots  pray  for  the  government,  you  can't 
expect  heathen  individuals  like  me  to  do  business  on  a  Chris 
tian  basis,  —  if  there  is  such  a  thing.  You  can  make  rules 
for  croquet,  but  not  for  a  game  that  is  based  on  the  natural 
law  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  The  darned  fools  in  the 
legislatures  try  it  occasionally,  but  we  all  know  it's  a  sop  to 
the  'common  people.'  Ask  Hughie  here  if  there  ever  was  a 
law  put  on  the  statute  books  that  his  friend  Watling  couldn't 
get  '  round '  ?  Why,  you've  got  competition  even  among  the 
churches.  Yours,  where  I  believe  you  teach  in  the  Sunday- 
school,  would  go  bankrupt  if  it  proclaimed  real  Christianity. 
And  you'll  go  bankrupt  if  you  practise  it,  Perry,  my  boy. 
Some  early,  wide-awake,  competitive,  red-blooded  bird  will 
relieve  you  of  the  Boyne  Street  car  line." 

It  was  one  of  this  same  new  and  "fittest"  species  who  had 
already  relieved  poor  Mr.  McAlery  Willett  of  his  fortune. 
Mr.  Willett  was  a  trusting  soul  who  had  never  known  how 
to  take  care  of  himself  or  his  money,  people  said,  and  now 
that  he  had  lost  it  they  blamed  him.  Some  had  been  saved — 
enough  for  him  and  Nancy  to  live  on  in  the  old  house,  with 
careful  economy.  It  was  Nancy  who  managed  the  economy, 
who  accomplished  remarkable  things  with  a  sum  they  would 
have  deemed  poverty  in  former  days.  Her  mother  had  died 
while  I  was  at  Cambridge.  Reverses  did  not  subdue  Mr. 
Willett's  spirits,  and  the  fascination  modern  "business"  had 
for  him  seemed  to  grow  in  proportion  to  the  misfortunes  it  had 
caused  him.  He  moved  into  a  tiny  office  in  the  Durrett 
Building,  where  he  appeared  every  morning  about  half-past 
ten  to  occupy  himself  with  heaven  knows  what  short  cuts  to 


140  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

wealth,  with  prospectuses  of  companies  in  Mexico  or  Central 
America  or  some  other  distant  place :  once,  I  remember,  it 
was  a  tea  company  in  which  he  tried  to  interest  his  friends, 
to  raise  in  the  South  a  product  he  maintained  would  surpass 
Orange  Pekoe.  In  the  afternoon  between  three  and  four  he 
would  turn  up  at  the  Boyne  Club,  as  well  groomed,  as  spruce 
as  ever,  generally  with  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole.  He  never 
forgot  that  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  he  had  a  gentleman's 
notions  of  the  fitness  of  things,  and  it  was  against  his  prin 
ciples  to  use  a  gentleman's  club  for  the  furtherance  of  his 
various  enterprises. 

"Drop  into  my  office  some  day,  Dickinson,"  he  would 
say.  "  I  think  I've  got  something  there  that  might  interest 

you." 

He  reminded  me,  when  I  met  him,  that  he  had  always 
predicted  I  would  get  along  in  life.  .  .  . 

The  portrait  of  Nancy  at  this  period  is  not  so  easily  drawn. 
The  decline  of  the  family  fortunes  seemed  to  have  had  as 
little  effect  upon  her  as  upon  her  father,  although  their  char 
acters  differed  sharply.  Something  of  that  spontaneity,  of 
that  love  of  life  and  joy  in  it  she  had  possessed  in  youth  she 
must  have  inherited  from  McAlery  Willett,  but  these  qual 
ities  had  disappeared  in  her  long  before  the  coming  of  finan 
cial  reverses.  She  was  nearing  thirty,  and  in  spite  of  her 
beauty  and  the  rarer  distinction  that  can  best  be  described 
as  breeding,  she  had  never  married.  Men  admired  her,  but 
from  a  distance ;  she  kept  them  at  arm's  length,  they  said  : 
strangers  who  visited  the  city  invariably  picked  her  out  of 
an  assembly  and  asked  who  she  was;  one  man  from  New 
York  who  came  to  visit  Ralph  and  who  had  been  madly  in 
love  with  her,  she  had  amazed  many  people  by  refusing,  — 
spurning  all  he  might  have  given  her.  This  incident 
seemed  a  refutation  of  the  charge  that  she  was  calculating. 
As  might  have  been  foretold,  she  had  the  social  gift  in  a  re 
markable  degree,  and  in  spite  of  the  limitations  of  her  purse 
the  knack  of  dressing  better  than  other  women,  though  at 
that  time  the  organization  of  our  social  life  still  remained 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  141 

comparatively  simple,  the  custom  of  luxurious  and  expensive 
entertainment  not  having  yet  set  in. 

The  more  I  reflect  upon  those  days,  the  more  surprising 
does  it  seem  that  I  was  not  in  love  with  her.  It  may  be  that 
I  was,  unconsciously,  for  she  troubled  my  thoughts  occa 
sionally,  and  she  represented  all  the  qualities  I  admired  in 
her  sex.  The  situation  that  had  existed  at  the  time  of  our 
first  and  only  quarrel  had  been  reversed,  I  was  on  the  high 
road  to  the  worldly  success  I  had  then  resolved  upon,  Nancy 
was  poor,  and  for  that  reason,  perhaps,  prouder  than  ever. 
If  she  was  inaccessible  to  others,  she  had  the  air  of  being 
peculiarly  inaccessible  to  me  —  the  more  so  because  some  of 
the  superficial  relics  of  our  intimacy  remained,  or  rather  had 
been  restored.  Her  very  manner  of  camaraderie  seemed 
paradoxically  to  increase  the  distance  between  us.  It  piqued 
me.  Had  she  given  me  the  least  encouragement,  I  am  sure 
I  should  have  responded ;  and  I  remember  that  I  used  occa 
sionally  to  speculate  as  to  whether  she  still  cared  for  me,  and 
took  this  method  of  hiding  her  real  feelings.  Yet,  on  the 
whole,  I  felt  a  certain  complacency  about  it  all ;  I  knew  that 
suffering  was  disagreeable,  I  had  learned  how  to  avoid  it, 
and  I  may  have  had,  deep  within  me,  a  feeling  that  I  might 
marry  her  after  all.  Meanwhile  my  life  was  full,  and  gave 
promise  of  becoming  even  fuller,  more  absorbing  and  exciting 
in  the  immediate  future. 


One  of  the  most  fascinating  figures,  to  me,  of  that  Order 
being  woven,  like  a  cloth  of  gold,  out  of  our  hitherto  drab 
civilization,  —  an  Order  into  which  I  was  ready  and  eager 
to  be  initiated,  —  was  that  of  Adolf  Scherer,  the  giant  Ger 
man  immigrant  at  the  head  of  the  Boyne  Iron  Works.  His 
life  would  easily  lend  itself  to  riotous  romance.  In  the  old 
country,  in  a  valley  below  the  castle  perched  on  the  rock 
above,  he  had  begun  life  by  tending  his  father's  geese.  What 
a  contrast  to  "Steeltown"  with  its  smells  and  sickening  sum 
mer  heat,  to  the  shanty  where  Mrs.  Scherer  took  boarders 


142  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

and  bent  over  the  wash-tub !  She,  too,  was  an  immigrant, 
but  lived  to  hear  her  native  Wagner  from  her  own  box  at 
Covent  Garden ;  and  he  to  explain,  on  the  deck  of  an  im 
perial  yacht,  to  the  man  who  might  have  been  his  sovereign 
certain  processes  in  the  manufacture  of  steel  hitherto  untried 
on  that  side  of  the  Atlantic.  In  comparison  with  Adolf 
Scherer,  citizen  of  a  once  despised  democracy,  the  minor 
prince  in  whose  dominions  he  had  once  tended  geese  was  of 
small  account  indeed ! 

The  Adolf  Scherer  of  that  day  —  though  it  is  not  so  long 
ago  as  time  flies  —  was  even  more  solid  and  impressive  than 
the  man  he  afterwards  became,  when  he  reached  the  dizzier 
heights  from  which  he  delivered  to  an  eager  press  opinions 
on  politics  and  war,  eugenics  and  woman's  suffrage  and  other 
subjects  that  are  the  despair  of  specialists.  Had  he  stuck 
to  steel,  he  would  have  remained  invulnerable.  But  even 
then  he  was  beginning  to  abandon  the  field  of  production  for 
that  of  exploitation :  figuratively  speaking,  he  had  taken  to 
soap,  which  with  the  aid  of  water  may  be  blown  into  beauti 
ful,  iridescent  bubbles  to  charm  the  eye.  Much  good  soap, 
apparently,  has  gone  that  way,  never  to  be  recovered. 
Everybody  who  was  anybody  began  to  blow  bubbles  about 
that  time,  and  the  bigger  the  bubble  the  greater  its  attraction 
for  investors  of  hard-earned  savings.  Outside  of  this  love  for 
—  financial  iridescence,  let  it  be  called,  Mr.  Scherer  seemed  to 
care  little  then  for  glitter  of  any  sort.  Shortly  after  his  eleva 
tion  to  the  presidency  of  the  Boyne  Iron  Works  he  had  been 
elected  a  member  of  the  Boyne  Club,  —  an  honour  of 
which,  some  thought,  he  should  have  been  more  sensible ;  but 
generally,  when  in  town,  he  preferred  to  lunch  at  a  little  Ger 
man  restaurant  annexed  to  a  saloon,  where  I  used  often  to 
find  him  literally  towering  above  the  cloth,  —  for  he  was  a 
giant  with  short  legs,  —  his  napkin  tucked  into  his  shirt 
front,  engaged  in  lively  conversation  with  the  ministering 
Heinrich.  The  chef  at  the  club,  Mr.  Scherer  insisted,  could 
produce  nothing  equal  to  Heinrich's  sauer-kraut  and  sausage. 
My  earliest  relationship  with  Mr.  Scherer  was  that  of  an 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  143 

errand  boy,  of  bringing  to  him  for  his  approval  papers  which 
might  not  be  intrusted  to  a  common  messenger.  His  gruff- 
ness  and  brevity  disturbed  me  more  than  I  cared  to  confess. 
I  was  pretty  sure  that  he  eyed  me  with  the  disposition  of  the 
self-made  to  believe  that  college  educations  and  good  tailors 
were  the  heaviest  handicaps  with  which  a  young  man  could 
be  burdened:  and  I  suspected  him  of  an  inimical  attitude 
toward  the  older  families  of  the  city.  Certain  men  possessed 
his  confidence;  and  he  had  built,  as  it  were,  a  stockade 
about  them,  sternly  keeping  the  rest  of  the  world  outside. 
In  Theodore  Watling  he  had  a  childlike  faith. 

Thus  I  studied  him,  with  a  deliberation  which  it  is  the 
purpose  of  these  chapters  to  confess,  though  he  little  knew 
that  he  was  being  made  the  subject  of  analysis.  Nor  did  I 
ever  venture  to  talk  with  him,  but  held  strictly  to  my  role  of 
errand  boy,  —  even  after  the  conviction  came  over  me  that 
he  was  no  longer  indifferent  to  my  presence.  The  day  ar 
rived,  after  some  years,  when  he  suddenly  thrust  toward 
me  a  big,  hairy  hand  that  held  the  document  he  was 
examining. 

"Who  drew  this,  Mr.  Paret?"  he  demanded. 

• 

Mr.  Ripon,  I  told  him. 

The  Boyne  Works  were  buying  up  coal-mines,  and  this  was 
a  contract  looking  to  the  purchase  of  one  in  Putman  County, 
provided,  after  a  certain  period  of  working,  the  yield  and 
quality  should  come  up  to  specifications.  Mr.  Scherer  re 
quested  me  to  read  one  of  the  sections,  which  puzzled  him. 
And  in  explaining  it  an  idea  flashed  over  me. 

"Do  you  mind  my  making  a  suggestion,  Mr.  Scherer?"  I 
ventured. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  brusquely. 

I  showed  him  how,  by  the  alteration  of  a  few  words,  the 
difficulty  to  which  he  had  referred  could  not  only  be  elim 
inated,  but  that  certain  possible  penalties  might  be  evaded, 
while  the  apparent  meaning  of  the  section  remained  un 
changed.  In  other  words,  it  gave  the  Boyne  Iron  Works 
an  advantage  that  was  not  contemplated.  He  seized  the 


144  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

paper,  stared  at  what  I  had  written  in  pencil  on  the  margin, 
and  then  stared  at  me.  Abruptly,  he  began  to  laugh. 

"Ask  Mr.  Watling  what  he  thinks  of  it?" 

"  I  intended  to,  provided  it  had  your  approval,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"You  have  my  approval,  Mr.  Paret,"  he  declared,  rather 
cryptically,  and  with  the  slight  German  hardening  of  the  v's 
into  which  he  relapsed  at  tunes.  "Bring  it  to  the  Works 
this  afternoon." 

Mr.  Watling  agreed  to  the  alteration.  He  looked  at  me 
amusedly. 

"Yes,  I  think  that's  an  improvement,  Hugh,"  he  said.  I 
had  a  feeling  that  I  had  gained  ground,  and  from  this  time  on 
I  thought  I  detected  a  change  in  his  attitude  toward  me; 
there  could  be  no  doubt  about  the  new  attitude  of  Mr. 
Scherer,  who  would  often  greet  me  now  with  a  smile  and  a 
joke,  and  sometimes  went  so  far  as  to  ask  my  opinions.  .  .  . 
Then,  about  six  months  later,  came  the  famous  Ribblevale 
case  that  aroused  the  moral  indignation  of  so  many  persons, 
among  whom  was  Perry  Blackwood. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Hugh,  how  this  thing  is  being 
manipulated,"  he  declared  at  Tom's  one  Sunday  evening; 
"there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  the  Ribblevale  Steel 
Company  —  it  was  as  right  as  rain  before  Leonard  Dickin 
son  and  Grierson  and  Scherer  and  that  crowd  you  train  with 
began  to  talk  it  down  at  the  Club.  Oh,  they're  very  com 
passionate.  I've  heard  'em.  Dickinson,  privately,  doesn't 
think  much  of  Ribblevale  paper,  and  Pugh"  (the  president 
of  the  Ribblevale)  "  seems  worried  and  looks  badly.  It's  all 
very  clever,  but  I'd  hate  to  tell  you  in  plain  words  what  I'd 
call  it." 

"  Go  ahead,"  I  challenged  him  audaciously.  "  You  haven't 
any  proof  that  the  Ribblevale  wasn't  in  trouble." 

"I  heard  Mr.  Pugh  tell  my  father  the  other  day  it  was  a 
d — d  outrage.  He  couldn't  catch  up  with  these  rumours, 
and  some  of  his  stockholders  were  liquidating." 

"You  don't  suppose  Pugh  would  want  to  admit  his  situ 
ation,  do  you?"  I  asked. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  145 

"Pugh's  a  straight  man,"  retorted  Perry.  "That's  more 
than  I  can  say  for  any  of  the  other  gang,  saving  your  presence. 
The  unpleasant  truth  is  that  Scherer  and  the  Boyne  people 
want  the  Ribblevale,  and  you  ought  to  know  it  if  you  don't." 
He  looked  at  me  very  hard  through  the  glasses  he  had 
lately  taken  to  wearing.  Tom,  who  was  lounging  by 
the  fire,  shifted  his  position  uneasily.  I  smiled,  and  took 
another  cigar. 

"  I  believe  Ralph  is  right,  Perry,  when  he  calls  you  a  sen 
timentalist.  For  you  there's  a  tragedy  behind  every  or 
dinary  business  transaction.  The  Ribblevale  people  are 
having  a  hard  time  to  keep  their  heads  above  water,  and 
immediately  you  smell  conspiracy.  Dickinson  and  Scherer 
have  been  talking  it  down.  How  about  it,  Tom?" 

But  Tom,  in  these  debates,  was  inclined  to  be  non-com 
mittal,  although  it  was  clear  they  troubled  him. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me,  Hughie,"  he  said. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  cultivate  the  scientific  point  of  view, 
and  look  with  impartial  interest  at  this  industrial  canni 
balism,"  returned  Perry,  sarcastically.  "Eat  or  be  eaten  — 
that's  what  enlightened  self-interest  has  come  to.  After  all, 
Ralph  would  say,  it  is  nature,  the  insect  world  over  again, 
the  victim  duped  and  crippled  before  he  is  devoured,  and  the 
lawyer  —  how  shall  I  put  it  ?  —  facilitating  the  processes  of 
swallowing  and  digesting.  .  .  ." 

There  was  no  use  arguing  with  Perry  when  he  was  in  this 
vein.  .  .  . 

Since  I  am  not  writing  a  technical  treatise,  I  need  not  go  into 
the  details  of  the  Ribblevale  suit.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the 
affair,  after  a  while,  came  apparently  to  a  deadlock,  owing 
to  the  impossibility  of  getting  certain  definite  information 
from  the  Ribblevale  books,  which  had  been  taken  out  of  the 
state.  The  treasurer,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  remained  out 
of  the  state  also;  the  ordinary  course  of  summoning  him 
before  a  magistrate  in  another  state  had  naturally  been  re 
sorted  to,  but  the  desired  evidence  was  not  forthcoming. 

"The  trouble  is,"  Mr.  Watling  explained  to  Mr.  Scherer, 


146  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"that  there  is  no  law  in  the  various  states  with  a  sufficient 
penalty  attached  that  will  compel  the  witness  to  divulge 
facts  he  wishes  to  conceal." 

It  was  the  middle  of  a  February  afternoon,  and  they  were 
seated  in  deep,  leather  chairs  in  one  corner  of  the  reading 
room  of  the  Boyne  Club.  They  had  the  place  to  themselves. 
Fowndes  was  there  also,  one  leg  twisted  around  the  other 
in  familiar  fashion,  a  bored  look  on  his  long  and  sallow  face. 
Mr.  Watling  had  telephoned  to  the  office  for  me  to  bring 
them  some  papers  bearing  on  the  case. 

"Sit  down,  Hugh,"  he  said  kindly. 

"Now  we  have  present  a  genuine  legal  mind,"  said  Mr. 
Scherer,  in  the  playful  manner  he  had  adopted  of  late,  while 
I  grinned  appreciatively  and  took  a  chair.  Mr.  Watling 
presently  suggested  kidnapping  the  Ribblevale  treasurer 
until  he  should  promise  to  produce  the  books  as  the  only  way 
out  of  what  seemed  an  impasse.  But  Mr.  Scherer  brought 
down  a  huge  fist  on  his  knee. 

"I  tell  you  it  is  no  joke,  Watling,  we've  got  to  win  that 
suit,"  he  asserted. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Watling.  "But  we're 
a  respectable  firm,  you  know.  We  haven't  had  to  resort  to 
safe-blowing,  as  yet." 

Mr.  Scherer  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  much  as  to  say  it 
were  a  matter  of  indifference  to  him  what  methods  were 
resorted  to.  Mr.  Watling's  eyes  met  mine;  his  glance  was 
amused,  yet  I  thought  I  read  in  it  a  query  as  to  the  advisabil 
ity,  in  my  presence,  of  going  too  deeply  into  the  question  of 
ways  and  means.  I  may  have  been  wrong.  At  any  rate, 
its  sudden  effect  was  to  embolden  me  to  give  voice  to  an  idea 
that  had  begun  to  simmer  in  my  mind,  that  excited  me,  — 
and  yet  I  had  feared  to  utter  it.  This  look  of  my  chief's, 
and  the  lighter  tone  the  conversation  had  taken  decided  me. 

"Why  wouldn't  it  be  possible  to  draw  up  a  bill  to  fit  the 
situation?"  I  inquired. 

Mr.  Watling  started. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  quickly.  ._,_..... ,; 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  147 

All  three  looked  at  me.  I  felt  the  blood  come  into  my  face, 
but  it  was  too  late  to  draw  back. 

"  Well  —  the  legislature  is  in  session.  And  since,  as  Mr. 
Watling  says,  there  is  no  sufficient  penalty  in  other  states 
to  compel  the  witness  to  produce  the  information  desired, 
why  not  draw  up  a  bill  and  —  and  have  it  passed — "  I 
paused  for  breath  — "  imposing  a  sufficient  penalty  on 
home  corporations  in  the  event  of  such  evasions.  The 
Ribblevale  Steel  Company  is  a  home  corporation." 
,  I  had  shot  my  bolt.  .  .  .  There  followed  what  was  for 
me  an  anxious  silence,  while  the  three  of  them  continued  to 
stare  at  me.  Mr.  Watling  put  the  tips  of  his  fingers  to 
gether,  and  I  became  aware  that  he  was  not  offended,  that  he 
was  thinking  rapidly. 

"By  George,  why  not,  Fowndes?"  he  demanded. 

"Well,"  said  Fowndes,  "there's  an  element  of  risk  in  such 
a  proceeding  I  need  not  dwell  upon." 

"Risk!"  cried  the  senior  partner  vigorously.  "There's 
risk  in  everything.  They'll  howl,  of  course.  But  they  howl 
anyway,  and  nobody  ever  listens  to  them.  They'll  say  it's 
special  legislation,  and  the  Pilot  will  print  sensational  ed 
itorials  for  a  few  days.  But  what  of  it?  All  of  that  has 
happened  before.  I  tell  you,  if  we  can't  see  those  books, 
we'll  lose  the  suit.  That's  in  black  and  white.  And,  as  a 
matter  of  justice,  we're  entitled  to  know  what  we  want  to 
know." 

"There  might  be  two  opinions  as  to  that,"  observed 
Fowndes,  with  his  sardonic  smile. 

Mr.  Watling  paid  no  attention  to  this  remark.  He  was 
already  deep  in  thought.  It  was  characteristic  of  his  mind 
to  leap  forward,  sei:ze  a  suggestion  that  often  appeared 
chimerical  to  a  man  like  Fowndes  and  turn  it  into  an  accom 
plished  fact.  "  I  believe  you've  hit  it,  Hugh,"  he  said.  "  We 
needn't  bother  about  the  powers  of  the  courts  in  other  states. 
We'll  put  into  this  bill  an  appeal  to  our  court  for  an  order  on 
the  clerk  to  compel  the  witness  to  come  before  the  court  and 
testify,  and  we'll  provide  for  a  special  commissioner  to  take 


148  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

depositions  in  the  state  where  the  witness  is.  If  the  officers 
of  a  home  corporation  who  are  outside  of  the  state  refuse 
to  testify,  the  penalty  will  be  that  the  corporation  goes  into 
the  hands  of  a  receiver." 

Fowndes  whistled. 

"That's  going  some!"  he  said. 

"  Well,  we've  got  to  go  some.     How  about  it,  Scherer  ?  " 

Even  Mr.  Scherer's  brown  eyes  were  snapping. 

"We  have  got  to  win  that  suit,  Watling." 

We  were  all  excited,  even  Fowndes,  I  think,  though  he 
remained  expressionless.  Ours  was  the  tense  excitement  of 
primitive  man  in  chase:  the  quarry  which  had  threatened 
to  elude  us  was  again  in  view,  and  not  unlikely  to  fall  into 
our  hands.  Add  to  this  feeling,  on  my  part,  the  thrill  that 
it  was  I  who  had  put  them  on  the  scent.  I  had  all  the  sen 
sations  of  an  aspiring  young  brave  who  for  the  first  time  is 
admitted  to  the  councils  of  the  tribe ! 

"It  ought  to  be  a  popular  bill,  too,"  Mr.  Scherer  was  saying, 
with  a  smile  of  ironic  appreciation  at  the  thought  of  dema 
gogues  advocating  it.  "We  should  have  one  of  Lawler's 
friends  introduce  it." 

"Oh,  we  shall  have  it  properly  introduced,"  replied  Mr. 
Watling. 

"It  may  come  back  at  us,"  suggested  Fowndes  pessimisti 
cally.  "The  Boyne  Iron  Works  is  a  home  corporation  too, 
if  I  am  not  mistaken." 

"The  Boyne  Iron  Works  has  the  firm  of  Watling,  Fowndes 
and  Ripon  behind  it,"  asserted  Mr.  Scherer,  with  what 
struck  me  as  a  magnificent  faith. 

"You  mustn't  forget  Paret,"  Mr.  Watling  reminded  him, 
with  a  wink  at  me. 

We  had  risen.     Mr.  Scherer  laid  a  hand  on  my  arm. 

"No,  no,  I  do  not  forget  him.  He  will  not  permit  me  to 
forget  him." 

A  remark,  I  thought,  that  betrayed  some  insight  into  my 
character.  .  .  .  Mr.  Watling  called  for  pen  and  paper  and 
made  then  and  there  a  draft  of  the  proposed  bill,  for  no  time 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  149 

was  to  be  lost.  It  was  dark  when  we  left  the  Club,  and  I 
recall  the  elation  I  felt  and  strove  to  conceal  as  I  accompanied 
my  chief  back  to  the  office.  The  stenographers  and  clerks 
were  gone;  alone  in  the  library  we  got  down  the  statutes 
and  set  to  work  to  perfect  the  bill  from  the  rough  draft,  on 
which  Mr.  Fowndes  had  written  his  suggestions.  I  felt 
that  a  complete  yet  subtle  change  had  come  over  my  re 
lationship  with  Mr.  Watling. 

In  the  midst  of  our  labours  he  asked  me  to  call  up  the 
attorney  for  the  Railroad.  Mr.  Gorse  was  still  at  his  office. 

"  Hello !  Is  that  you,  Miller  ?  "  Mr.  Watling  said.  "  This 
is  Watling.  When  can  I  see  you  for  a  few  minutes  this 
evening?  Yes,  I  am  leaving  for  Washington  at  nine  thirty. 
Eight  o'clock.  All  right,  I'll  be  there." 

It  was  almost  eight  before  he  got  the  draft  finished  to  his 
satisfaction,  and  I  had  picked  it  out  on  the  typewriter.  As 
I  handed  it  to  him,  my  chief  held  it  a  moment,  gazing  at 
me  with  an  odd  smile. 

"You  seem  to  have  acquired  a  good  deal  of  useful  knowl 
edge,  here  and  there,  Hugh,"  he  observed. 

"  I've  tried  to  keep  my  eyes  open,  Mr.  Watling,"  I  said. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "there  are  a  great  many  things  a  young 
man  practising  law  in  these  days  has  to  learn  for  himself. 
And  if  I  hadn't  given  you  credit  for  some  cleverness,  I 
shouldn't  have  wanted  you  here.  There's  only  one  way  to 
look  at  —  at  these  matters  we  have  been  discussing,  my  boy, 
that's  the  common-sense  way,  and  if  a  man  doesn't  get  that 
point  of  view  by  himself,  nobody  can  teach  it  to  him.  I 
needn't  enlarge  upon  it." 

"No,  sir,"  I  said. 

He  smiled  again,  but  immediately  became  serious. 

"  If  Mr.  Gorse  should  approve  of  this  bill,  I'm  going  to 
send  you  down  to  the  capital  —  to-night.  Can  you  go  ?  " 

I  nodded. 

"  I  want  you  to  look  out  for  the  bill  in  the  legislature.  Of 
course  there  won't  be  much  to  do,  except  to  stand  by,  but 
you  will  get  a  better  idea  of  what  goes  on  down  there." 


150  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

I  thanked  him,  and  told  him  I  would  do  my  best. 

"I'm  sure  of  that,"  he  replied.  "Now  it's  time  to  go  to 
see  Gorse." 

The  legal  department  of  the  Railroad  occupied  an  entire 
floor  of  the  Corn  Bank  building.  I  had  often  been  there  on 
various  errands,  having  on  occasions  delivered  sealed  en 
velopes  to  Mr.  Gorse  himself,  approaching  him  in  the  ordi 
nary  way  through  a  series  of  offices.  But  now,  following  Mr. 
Watling  through  the  dimly  lighted  corridor,  we  came  to  a 
door  on  which  no  name  was  painted,  and  which  was  presently 
opened  by  a  stenographer.  There  was  in  the  proceeding  a 
touch  of  mystery  that  revived  keenly  my  boyish  love  for 
romance ;  brought  back  the  days  when  I  had  been,  in  turn, 
Captain  Kidd  and  Ali  Baba. 

I  have  never  realized  more  strongly  than  in  that  moment 
the  psychological  force  of  prestige.  Little  by  little,  for  five 
years,  an  estimate  of  the  extent  of  Miller  Gorse' s  power  had 
been  coming  home  to  me,  and  his  features  stood  in  my  mind 
for  his  particular  kind  of  power.  He  was  a  tremendous 
worker,  and  often  remained  in  his  office  until  ten  and  eleven 
at  night.  He  dismissed  the  stenographer  by  the  wave  of  a 
hand  which  seemed  to  thrust  her  bodily  out  of  the  room. 

"Hello,  Miller,"  said  Mr.  Watling. 

"Hello,  Theodore,"  replied  Mr.  Gorse. 

"This  is  Paret,  of  my  office." 

"I  know,"  said  Mr.  Gorse,  and  nodded  toward  me.  I  was 
impressed  by  the  felicity  with  which  a  cartoonist  of  the 
Pilot  had  once  caricatured  him  by  the  use  of  curved  lines. 
The  circle  of  the  heavy  eyebrows  ended  at  the  wide  nostrils ; 
the  mouth  was  a  crescent,  but  bowed  downwards ;  the  heavy 
shoulders  were  rounded.  Indeed,  the  only  straight  line  to 
be  discerned  about  him  was  that  of  his  hair,  black  as  bitumen, 
banged  across  his  forehead;  even  his  polished  porphyry 
eyes  were  constructed  on  some  curvilinear  principle,  and 
never  seemed  to  focus.  It  might  be  said  of  Mr.  Gorse  that 
he  had  an  overwhelming  impersonality.  One  could  never 
be  quite  sure  that  one's  words  reached  the  mark. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  151 

In  spite  of  the  intimacy  which  I  knew  existed  between 
them,  in  my  presence  at  least  Mr.  Gorse's  manner  was  little 
different  with  Mr.  Watling  than  it  was  with  other  men.  Mr. 
Watling  did  not  seem  to  mind.  He  pulled  up  a  chair  close 
to  the  desk  and  began,  without  any  preliminaries,  to  explain 
his  errand. 

"It's  about  the  Ribblevale  affair,"  he  said.  "You  know 
we  have  a  suit." 

Gorse  nodded. 

"  We've  got  to  get  at  the  books,  Miller,  —  that's  all  there 
is  to  it.  I  told  you  so  the  other  day.  Well,  we've  found  out 
a  way,  I  think." 

He  thrust  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  while  the  railroad  attor 
ney  remained  impassive,  and  drew  out  the  draft  of  the  bill. 
Mr.  Gorse  read  it,  then  read  it  over  again,  and  laid  it  down 
in  front  of  him. 

"Well,"  he  said. 

"I  want  to  put  that  through  both  houses  and  have  the 
governor's  signature  to  it  by  the  end  of  the  week." 

"It  seems  a  little  raw,  at  first  sight,  Theodore,"  said  Mr. 
Gorse,  with  the  suspicion  of  a  smile. 

My  chief  laughed  a  little. 

"  It's  not  half  so  raw  as  some  things  I  might  mention,  that 
went  through  like  greased  lightning,"  he  replied.  "What 
can  they  do?  I  believe  it  will  hold  water.  Tallant's,  and 
most  of  the  other  newspapers  in  the  state,  won't  print  a  line 
about  it,  and  only  Socialists  and  Populists  read  the  Pilot. 
They're  disgruntled  anyway.  The  point  is,  there's  no  other 
way  out  for  us.  Just  think  a  moment,  bearing  in  mind  what 
I've  told  you  about  the  case,  and  you'll  see  it." 

Mr.  Gorse  took  up  the  paper  again,  and  read  the  draft 
over. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Miller,  how  dangerous  it  is  to 
leave  this  Ribblevale  business  at  loose  ends.  The  Carlisle 
steel  people  and  the  Lake  Shore  road  are  after  the  Ribblevale 
Company,  and  we  can't  afford  to  run  any  risk  of  their  getting 
it.  It's  logically  a  part  of  the  Boyne  interests,  as  Scherer 


152  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

says,  and  Dickinson  is  ready  with  the  money  for  the  reor 
ganization.  If  the  Carlisle  people  and  the  Lake  Shore  get 
it,  the  product  will  be  shipped  out  by  the  L  and  G,  and  the 
Railroad  will  lose.  What  would  Barbour  say?" 

Mr.  Barbour,  as  I  have  perhaps  mentioned,  was  the  pres 
ident  of  the  Railroad,  and  had  his  residence  in  the  other 
great  city  of  the  state.  He  was  then,  I  knew,  in  the  West. 

"We've  got  to  act  now,"  insisted  Mr.  Watling.  "That's 
open  and  shut.  If  you  have  any  other  plan,  I  wish  you'd 
trot  it  out.  If  not,  I  want  a  letter  to  Paul  Varney  and  the 
governor.  I'm  going  to  send  Paret  down  with  them  on  the 
night  train." 

It  was  clear  to  me  then,  in  the  discussion  following,  that 
Mr.  WTatling's  gift  of  persuasion,  though  great,  was  not  the 
determining  factor  in  Mr.  Gorse's  decision.  He,  too, 
possessed  boldness,  though  he  preferred  caution.  Nor  did 
the  friendship  between  the  two  enter  into  the  transaction.  I 
was  impressed  more  strongly  than  ever  with  the  fact  that  a 
lawsuit  was  seldom  a  mere  private  affair  between  two 
persons  or  corporations,  but  involved  a  chain  of  relationships : 
and  nine  times  out  of  ten  that  chain  led  up  to  the  Railroad, 
which  nearly  always  was  vitally  interested  in  these  legal 
contests.  Half  an  hour  of  masterly  presentation  of  the  sit 
uation  was  necessary  before  Mr.  Gorse  became  convinced 
that  the  introduction  of  the  bill  was  the  only  way  out  for 
all  concerned. 

"Well,  I  guess  you're  right,  Theodore,"  he  said  at  length. 
Whereupon  he  seized  his  pen  and  wrote  off  two  notes  with 
great  rapidity.  These  he  showed  to  Mr.  Watling,  who 
nodded  and  returned  them.  They  were  folded  and  sealed, 
and  handed  to  me.  One  was  addressed  to  Colonel  Paul 
Varney,  and  the  other  to  the  Hon.  W.  W.  Trulease,  governor 
of  the  state. 

"You  can  trust  this  young  man?"  demanded  Mr.  Gorse. 

"I  think  so,"  replied  Mr.  Watling,  smiling  at  me.  "The 
bill  was  his  own  idea." 

The  railroad  attorney  wheeled  about  in  his  chair  and  looked 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  153 

at  me ;  looked  around  me,  would  better  express  it,  with  his 
indefinite,  encompassing  yet  inclusive  glance.  I  had  riveted 
his  attention.  And  from  henceforth,  I  knew,  I  should  enter 
into  his  calculations.  He  had  made  for  me  a  compartment 
in  his  mind. 

"His  own  idea!"  he  repeated. 

"  I  merely  suggested  it,"  I  was  putting  in,  when  he  cut  me 
short. 

"Aren't  you  the  son  of  Matthew  Paret?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

He  gave  me  a  queer  glance,  the  significance  of  which  I 
left  untranslated.  My  excitement  was  too  great  to  analyze 
what  he  meant  by  this  mention  of  my  father.  .  .  . 

When  we  reached  the  sidewalk  my  chief  gave  me  a  few 
parting  instructions. 

"I  need  scarcely  say,  Hugh,"  he  added,  "that  your  pres 
ence  in  the  capital  should  not  be  advertised  as  connected 
with  this  —  legislation.  They  will  probably  attribute  it  to 
us  in  the  end,  but  if  you're  reasonably  careful,  they'll  never 
be  able  to  prove  it.  And  there's  no  use  in  putting  our  cards 
on  the  table  at  the  beginning." 

"No  indeed,  sir!"  I  agreed. 

He  took  my  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"  Good  luck,"  he  said.     "  I  know  you'll  get  along  all  right." 


X 


THIS  was  not  my  first  visit  to  the  state  capital.  Indeed, 
some  of  that  recondite  knowledge,  in  which  I  took  a  pride, 
had  been  gained  on  the  occasions  of  my  previous  visits. 
Rising  and  dressing  early,  I  beheld  out  of  the  car  window 
the  broad,  shallow  river  glinting  in  the  morning  sunlight, 
the  dome  of  the  state  house  against  the  blue  of  the  sky.  Even 
at  that  early  hour  groups  of  the  gentlemen  who  made  our 
laws  were  scattered  about  the  lobby  of  the  Potts  House,  stand 
ing  or  seated  within  easy  reach  of  the  gaily  coloured  cuspidors 
that  protected  the  marble  floor :  heavy-jawed  workers  from 
the  cities  mingled  with  moonfaced  but  astute  countrymen  who 
manipulated  votes  amongst  farms  and  villages;  fat  or 
cadaverous,  Irish,  German  or  American,  all  bore  in  common 
a  certain  indefinable  stamp.  Having  eaten  my  breakfast 
in  a  large  dining-room  that  resounded  with  the  clatter  of 
dishes,  I  directed  my  steps  to  the  apartment  occupied  from 
year  to  year  by  Colonel  Paul  Varney,  generalissimo  of  the 
Railroad  on  the  legislative  battlefield,  —  a  position  that 
demanded  a  certain  uniqueness  of  genius. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  guarded  but  courteous 
tone  as  he  opened  the  door.  I  entered  to  confront  a  group 
of  three  or  four  figures,  silent  and  rather  hostile,  seated  in  a 
haze  of  tobacco  smoke  around  a  marble-topped  table.  On 
it  reposed  a  Bible,  attached  to  a  chain. 

"You  probably  don't  remember  me,  Colonel,"  I  said. 
"My  name  is  Paret,  and  I'm  associated  with  the  firm  of 
Watling,  Fowndes  and  Ripon." 

His  air  of  martiality,  —  heightened  by  a  grey  moustache 
and  goatee  a  la  Napoleon  Third,  —  vanished  instantly ;  he 
became  hospitable,  ingratiating. 

154 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  155 

"Why  —  why  certainly,  you  were  down  heah  with  Mr. 
Fowndes  two  years  ago."  The  Colonel  spoke  with  a  slight 
Southern  accent.  "To  be  sure,  sir.  I've  had  the  honour 
of  meeting  your  father.  Mr.  Norris,  of  North  Haven,  meet 
Mr.  Paret  —  one  of  our  rising  lawyers  ..."  I  shook  hands 
with  them  all  and  sat  down.  Opening  his  long  coat,  Colonel 
Varney  revealed  two  rows  of  cigars,  suggesting  cartridges  in 
a  belt.  These  he  proceeded  to  hand  out  as  he  talked.  "  I'm 
glad  to  see  you  here,  Mr.  Paret.  You  must  stay  awhile, 
and  become  acquainted  with  the  men  who  —  ahem  —  are 
shaping  the  destinies  of  a  great  state.  It  would  give  me 
pleasure  to  escort  you  about." 

I  thanked  him.  I  had  learned  enough  to  realize  how  im 
portant  are  the  amenities  in  politics  and  business.  The 
Colonel  did  most  of  the  conversing ;  he  could  not  have  filled 
with  efficiency  and  ease  the  important  post  that  was  his 
had  it  not  been  for  the  endless  fund  of  humorous  anecdotes 
at  his  disposal.  One  by  one  the  visitors  left,  each  assuring 
me  of  his  personal  regard:  the  Colonel  closed  the  door, 
softly,  turning  the  key  in  the  lock;  there  was  a  sly  look  in 
his  black  eyes  as  he  took  a  chair  in  proximity  to  mine. 

"Well,  Mr.  Paret,"  he  asked  softly,  "what's  up?" 

Without  further  ado  I  handed  him  Mr.  Gorse's  letter,  and 
another  Mr.  Watling  had  given  me  for  him,  which  con 
tained  a  copy  of  the  bill.  He  read  these,  laid  them  on  the 
table,  glancing  at  me  again,  stroking  his  goatee  the  while. 
He  chuckled. 

"  By  gum ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  take  off  my  hat  to  Theodore 
Watling,  always  did."  He  became  contemplative.  "It  can 
be  done,  Mr.  Paret,  but  it's  going  to  take  some  careful 
driving,  sir,  some<  reaching  out  and  flicking  'em  when  they 
r'ar  and  buck.  Paul  Varney's  never  been  stumped  yet. 
Just  as  soon  as  this  is  introduced  we'll  have  Gates  and  Arm 
strong  down  here  —  they're  the  Ribblevale  attorneys,  aren't 
they  ?  I  thought  so,  —  and  the  best  legal  talent  they  can 
hire.  And  they'll  round  up  all  the  disgruntled  fellows,  — 
you  know,  — _that  ain't  friendly  to  the  Railroad.  We've 


156  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

got  to  do  it  quick,  Mr.  Paret.    Gorse  gave  you  a  letter  to 
the  Governor,  didn't  he?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Well,  come  along.     I'll  pass  the  word  around  among  the 
boys,  just  to  let  'em  know  what  to  expect."     His  eyes  glit 
tered  again.     "  I've  been  following  this  Ribblevale  business," 
•  he  added,  "  and  I  understand  Leonard  Dickinson's  all  ready 
1  to  reorganize  that  company,  when  the  time  comes.     He 
ought  to  let  me  in  for  a  little,  on  the  ground  floor." 
:    I  did  not  venture  to  make  any  promises  for  Mr.  Dickinson. 

"I  reckon  it's  just  as  well  if  you  were  to  meet  me  at  the 
Governor's  office,"  the  Colonel  added  reflectively,  and  the 
hint  was  not  lost  on  me.  "It's  better  not  to  let  'em  find 
out  any  sooner  than  they  have  to  where  this  thing  comes 
from,  —  you  understand."  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "How 
would  nine  o'clock  do?  I'll  be  there,  with  Trulease,  when 
you  come,  —  by  accident,  you  understand.  Of  course  he'll 
be  reasonable,  but  when  they  get  to  be  governors  they  have 
little  notions,  you  know,  and  you've  got  to  indulge  'em, 
flatter  'em  a  little.  It  doesn't  hurt,  for  when  they  get  their 
backs  up  it  only  makes  more  trouble." 

He  put  on  a  soft,  black  felt  hat,  and  departed  noiselessly.  .  . 

At  nine  o'clock  I  arrived  at  the  State  House  and  was  ushered 
into  a  great  square  room  overlooking  the  park.  The  Governor 
was  seated  at  a  desk  under  an  elaborate  chandelier,  and  sure 
enough,  Colonel  Varney  was  there  beside  him,  making 
barely  perceptible  signals. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Paret," 
said  Mr.  Trulease.  "Your  name  is  a  familiar  one  in  your 
city,  sir.  And  I  gather  from  your  card  that  you  are  associated 
with  my  good  friend,  Theodore  Watling." 

I  acknowledged  it.  I  was  not  a  little  impressed  by  the 
perfect  blend  of  cordiality,  democratic  simplicity  and  im- 
pressiveness  Mr.  Trulease  had  achieved.  For  he  had  man 
aged,  in  the  course  of  a  long  political  career,  to  combine  in 
exact  proportions  these  elements  which,  in  the  public  mind, 
should  make  up  the  personality  of  a  chief  executive.  Mo- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  157 

mentarily  he  overcame  the  feeling  of  superiority  with  which 
I  had  entered  his  presence;  neutralized  the  sense  I  had 
of  being  associated  now  with  the  higher  powers  which  had 
put  him  where  he  was.  For  I  knew  all  about  his  "record." 

"You're  acquainted  with  Colonel  Varney?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,  Governor,  I've  met  the  Colonel,"  I  said. 

"Well,  I  suppose  your  firm  is  getting  its  share  of  business 
these  days,"  Mr.  Trulease  observed.  I  acknowledged  *•• 
it  was,  and  after  discussing  for  a  few  moments  the  remark 
able  growth  of  my  native  city  the  Governor  tapped  on  his 
desk  and  inquired  what  he  could  do  for  me.  I  produced  the 
letter  from  the  attorney  for  the  Railroad.  The  Governor 
read  it  gravely. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "from  Mr.  Gorse."  A  copy  of  the  pro 
posed  bill  was  enclosed,  and  the  Governor  read  that  also, 
hemmed  and  hawed  a  little,  turned  and  handed  it  to  Colonel 
Varney,  who  was  sitting  with  a  detached  air,  smoking  con 
templatively,  a  vacant  expression  on  his  face.  "What  do 
you  think  of  this,  Colonel?" 

Whereupon  the  Colonel  tore  himself  away  from  his  re 
flections. 

"What's  that,  Governor?" 

"Mr.  Gorse  has  called  my  attention  to  what  seems  to  him 
a  flaw  in  our  statutes,  an  inability  to  obtain  testimony  from 
corporations  whose  books  are  elsewhere,  and  who  may  thus 
evade,  he  says,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  sovereign  will  of  our 
state." 

The  Colonel  took  the  paper  with  an  admirable  air  of  sur 
prise,  adjusted  his  glasses,  and  became  absorbed  in  reading, 
clearing  his  throat  once  or  twice  and  emitting  an  exclama 
tion. 

"Well,  if  you  ask  me,  Governor,"  he  said,  at  length,  "all 
I  can  say  is  that  I  am  astonished  somebody  didn't  think  of 
this  simple  remedy  before  now.  Many  times,  sir,  have  I  seen 
justice  defeated  because  we  had  no  such  legislation  as  this." 

He  handed  it  back.  The  Governor  studied  it  once  more, 
and  coughed. 


158  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Does  the  penalty,"  he  inquired,  "seem  to  you  a  little 
severe?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  Colonel,  emphatically.  "Perhaps 
it  is  because  I  am  anxious,  as  a  citizen,  to  see  an  evil  abated. 
I  have  had  an  intimate  knowledge  of  legislation,  sir,  for  more 
}  than  twenty  years  in  this  state,  and  in  all  that  time  I  do  not 
V  remember  to  have  seen  a  bill  more  concisely  drawn,  or  better 
calculated  to  accomplish  the  ends  of  justice.  Indeed,  I 
often  wondered  why  this  very  penalty  was  not  imposed. 
Foreign  magistrates  are  notoriously  indifferent  as  to  affairs 
in  another  state  than  their  own.  Rather  than  go  into  the 
hands  of  a  receiver  I  venture  to  say  that  hereafter,  if  this 
bill  is  made  a  law,  the  necessary  testimony  will  be  forth 
coming." 

The  Governor  read  the  bill  through  again. 

"If  it  is  introduced,  Colonel,"  he  said,  "  the  legislature  and 
the  people  of  the  state  ought  to  have  it  made  clear  to  them 
that  its  aim  is  to  remedy  an  injustice.  A  misunderstanding 
on  this  point  would  be  unfortunate." 

"Most  unfortunate,  Governor." 

"And  of  course,"  added  the  Governor,  now  addressing 
me,  "it  would  be  improper  for  me  to  indicate  what  course 
I  shall  pursue  in  regard  to  it  if  it  should  come  to  me  for  my 
signature.  Yet  I  may  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  defect  it 
seeks  to  remedy  seems  to  me  a  real  one.  Come  in  and  see 
me,  Mr.  Paret,  when  you  are  in  town,  and  give  my  cordial 
regards  to  Mr.  Watling." 

So  gravely  had  the  farce  been  carried  on  that  I  almost 
laughed,  despite  the  fact  that  the  matter  in  question  was  a 
serious  one  for  me.  The  Governor  held  out  his  hand,  and  I 
accepted  my  dismissal. 

I  had  not  gone  fifty  steps  in  the  corridor  before  I  heard  the 
Colonel's  voice  in  my  ear. 

"We  had  to  give  him  a  little  rope  to  go  through  with  his 
act,"  he  whispered  confidentially.  "But  he'll  sign  it  all 
right.  And  now,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Paret,  I'll  lay  a 
few  mines.  See  you  at  the  hotel,  sir." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  159 

Thus  he  indicated,  delicately,  that  it  would  be  better  for  me 
to  keep  out  of  sight.  On  my  way  to  the  Potts  House  the 
bizarre  elements  in  the  situation  struck  me  again  with  consid 
erable  force.  It  seemed  so  ridiculous,  so  puerile  to  have  to  go 
through  with  this  political  farce  in  order  that  a  natural  eco 
nomic  evolution  might  be  achieved.  Without  doubt  the  de 
velopment  of  certain  industries  had  reached  a  stage  where  the 
units  in  competition  had  become  too  small,  when  a  greater 
concentration  of  capital  was  necessary.  Curiously  enough, 
in  this  mental  argument  of  justification,  I  left  out  all  consider 
ation  of  the  size  of  the  probable  profits  to  Mr.  Scherer  and 
his  friends.  Profits  and  brains  went  together.  And,  since  the 
Almighty  did  not  limit  the  latter,  why  should  man  attempt  to 
limit  the  former  ?  We  were  playing  for  high  but  justifiable 
stakes ;  and  I  resented  the  comedy  which  an  hypocritical  in 
sistence  on  the  forms  of  democracy  compelled  us  to  go  through. 
It  seemed  unworthy  of  men  who  controlled  the  destinies  of 
state  and  nation.  The  point  of  view,  however,  was  consoling. 
As  the  day  wore  on  I  sat  in  the  Colonel's  room,  admiring  the 
skill  with  which  he  conducted  the  campaign :  a  green  country 
lawyer  had  been  got  to  introduce  the  bill,  it  had  been  ex 
pedited  to  the  Committee  on  the  Judiciary,  which  would  have 
an  executive  session  immediately  after  dinner.  I  had  ven 
tured  to  inquire  about  the  hearings. 

"There  won't  be  any  hearings,  sir,"  the  Colonel  assured 
me.  "We  own  that  committee  from  top  to  bottom." 

Indeed,  by  four  oclock  in  the  afternoon  the  message  came 
that  the  committee  -had  agreed  to  recommend  the  bill. 

Shortly  after  that  the  first  flurry  occurred.  There  came 
a  knock  at  the  door,  followed  by  the  entrance  of  a  stocky 
Irish  American  of  about  forty  years  of  age,  whose  black  hair 
was  plastered  over  his  forehead.  His  sea-blue  eyes  had  a 
stormy  look. 

"Hello,  Jim,"  said  the  Colonel.  "I  was  just  wondering 
where  you  were." 

"Sure,  you  must  have  been!"  replied  the  gentleman 
sarcastically. 


160  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

But  the  Colonel's  geniality  was  unruffled. 

"Mr.  Maher,"  he  said,  "you  ought  to  know  Mr.  Paret. 
Mr.  Maher  is  the  representative  from  Ward  Five  of  your  city, 
and  we  can  always  count  on  him  to  do  the  right  thing,  even 
if  he  is  a  Democrat.  How  about  it,  Jim  ?  " 

Mr.  Maher  relighted  the  stump  of  his  cigar. 

"Take  a  fresh  one,  Jim,"  said  the  Colonel,  opening  a 
bureau  drawer. 

Mr.  Maher  took  two. 

"Say,  Colonel,"  he  demanded,  "what's  this  bill  that  went 
into  the  judiciary  this  morning?" 

"What  bill?"  asked  the  Colonel,  blandly. 

"So  you  think  I  ain't  on?"  Mr.  Maher  inquired. 

The  Colonel  laughed. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Jim  ?  " 

"I've  been  up  to  the  city,  seein'  my  wife  —  that's  where 
I've  been." 

The  Colonel  smiled,  as  at  a  harmless  fiction. 

"Well,  if  you  weren't  here,  I  don't  see  what  right  you've 
got  to  complain.  I  never  leave  my  good  Democratic  friends 
on  the  outside,  do  I  ?  " 

"That's  all  right,"  replied  Mr.  Maher,  doggedly,  "I'm  on, 
I'm  here  now,  and  that  bill  in  the  Judiciary  doesn't  pass 
without  me.  I  guess  I  can  stop  it,  too.  How  about  a 
thousand  apiece  for  five  of  us  boys  ? " 

"You're  pretty  good  at  a  joke,  Jim,"  remarked  the  Colonel, 
stroking  his  goatee. 

"Maybe  you're  looking  for  a  little  publicity  in  this  here 
game,"  retorted  Mr.  Maher,  darkly.  "Say,  Colonel,  ain't 
we  always  treated  the  Railroad  on  the  level?" 

"Jim,"  asked  the  Colonel,  gently,  "didn't  I  always  take 
care  of  you  ?  " 

He  had  laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mr.  Maher,  who 
appeared  slightly  mollified,  and  glanced  at  a  massive  silver 
watch. 

"Well,  I'll  be  dropping  in  about  eight  o'clock,"  was  his 
significant  reply,  as  he  took  his  leave. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  161 

"I  guess  we'll  have  to  grease  the  wheels  a  little,"  the 
Colonel  remarked  to  me,  and  gazed  at  the  ceiling.  .  .  . 

The  telegram  apropos  of  the  Ward  Five  leader  was  by  no 
means  the  only  cipher  message  I  sent  back  during  my  stay. 
I  had  not  needed  to  be  told  that  the  matter  in  hand  would 
cost  money,  but  Mr.  Watling's  parting  instruction  to  me 
had  been  to  take  the  Colonel's  advice  as  to  specific  sums,  and 
obtain  confirmation  from  Fowndes.  Nor  was  it  any  sur 
prise  to  me  to  find  Democrats  on  intimate  terms  with  such 
a  stout  Republican  as  the  Colonel.  Some  statesman  is 
said  to  have  declared  that  he  knew  neither  Easterners  nor 
Westerners,  Northerners  nor  Southerners,  but  only  Americans ; 
so  Colonel  Varney  recognized  neither  Democrats  nor  Re 
publicans;  in  our  legislature  party  divisions  were  sunk  in 
a  greater  loyalty  —  to  the  Railroad. 

At  the  Colonel's  suggestion  I  had  laid  in  a  liberal  supply 
of  cigars  and  whiskey.  The  scene  in  his  room  that  evening 
suggested  a  session  of  a  sublimated  grand  lodge  of  some  secret 
order,  such  were  the  mysterious  comings  and  goings,  knocks 
and  suspenses.  One  after  another  the  "important"  men 
duly  appeared  and  were  introduced,  the  Colonel  supplying 
the  light  touch. 

"  Why,  cuss  me  if  it  isn't  Billy !  Mr.  Paret,  I  want  you 
to  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Donovan,  the  floor  leader  of  the 
'opposition/  sir.  Mr.  Donovan  has  had  the  habit  of  coming 
up  here  for  a  friendly  chat  ever  since  he  first  came  down  to 
the  legislature.  How  long  is  it,  Billy?" 

"I  guess  it's  nigh  on  to  fifteen  years,  Colonel." 

"Fifteen  years!"  echoed  the  Colonel,  "and  he's  so  good  a 
Democrat  it  hasn't  changed  his  politics  a  particle." 

Mr.  Donovan  grinned  in  appreciation  of  this  thrust,  helped 
himself  liberally  from  the  bottle  on  the  mantel,  and  took  a 
seat  on  the  bed.  We  had  a  "friendly  chat." 

Thus  I  made  the  acquaintance  also  of  the  Hon.  Joseph 
Mecklin,  Speaker  of  the  House,  who  unbent  in  the  most 
flattering  way  on  learning  my  identity. 

"Mr.   Paret's   here  on   that  little  matter,   representing 


162  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Watling,  Fowndes  and  Ripon,"  the  Colonel  explained.  And 
it  appeared  that  Mr.  Mecklin  knew  all  about  the  "little 
matter,"  and  that  the  mention  of  the  firm  of  Watling, 
Fowndes  and  Ripon  had  a  magical  effect  in  these  parts.  The 
President  of  the  Senate,  the  Hon.  Lafe  Giddings,  went  so 
far  as  to  say  that  he  hoped  before  long  to  see  Mr.  Watling 
in  Washington.  By  no  means  the  least  among  our  callers 
was  the  Hon.  Fitch  Truesdale,  editor  of  the  St.  Helen's 
Messenger,  whose  editorials  were  of  the  trite  effectiveness 
that  is  taken  widely  for  wisdom,  and  were  assiduously 
copied  every  week  by  other  state  papers  and  labelled  "Mr. 
Truesdale's  Common  Sense."  At  countless  firesides  in  our 
state  he  was  known  as  the  spokesman  of  the  plain  man,  who 
was  blissfully  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Truesdale  was 
owned  body  and  carcass  by  Mr.  Cyrus  Riddell,  the  principal 
manufacturer  of  St.  Helen's  and  a  director  in  several  sub 
sidiary  lines  of  the  Railroad.  In  the  legislature,  the  Hon. 
Fitch's  function  was  that  of  the  moderate  counsellor  and  bell 
wether  for  new  members,  hence  nothing  could  have  been 
more  fitting  than  the  choice  of  that  gentleman  for  the  honour 
of  moving,  on  the  morrow,  that  Bill  No.  709  ought  to  pass. 

Mr.  Truesdale  reluctantly  consented  to  accept  a  small 
"loan"  that  would  help  to  pay  the  mortgage  on  his  new 
press.  .  .  . 

When  the  last  of  the  gathering  had  departed,  about  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  had  added  considerably  to  my 
experience,  gained  a  pretty  accurate  idea  of  who  was  who  in 
the  legislature  and  politics  of  the  state,  and  established 
relationships  —  as  the  Colonel  reminded  me  —  likely  to 
prove  valuable  in  the  future.  It  seemed  only  gracious  to 
congratulate  him  on  his  management  of  the  affair,  —  so 
far.  He  appeared  pleased,  and  squeezed  my  hand. 

"Well,  sir,  it  did  require  a  little  delicacy  of  touch.  And 
if  I  do  say  it  myself,  it  hasn't  been  botched,"  he  admitted. 
"There  ain't  an  outsider,  as  far  as  I  can  learn,  who  has 
caught  on  to  the  nigger  in  the  wood-pile.  That's  the  great 
thing,  to  keep  'em  ignorant  as  long  as  possible.  You  under- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  163 

stand.  They  yell  bloody  murder  when  they  do  find  out, 
but  generally  it's  too  late,  if  a  bill's  been  handled  right." 

I  found  myself  speculating  as  to  who  the  "outsiders" 
might  be.  No  Ribblevale  attorneys  were  on  the  spot  as 
yet,  —  of  that  I  was  satisfied.  In  the  absence  of  these, 
who  were  the  opposition  ?  It  seemed  to  me  as  though  I  had 
interviewed  that  day  every  man  in  the  legislature. 

I  was  very  tired.  But  when  I  got  into  bed,  it  was  impossi 
ble  to  sleep.  My  eyes  smarted  from  the  tobacco  smoke; 
and  the  events  of  the  day,  in  disorderly  manner,  kept  running 
through  my  head.  The  tide  of  my  exhilaration  had  ebbed, 
and  I  found  myself  struggling  against  a  revulsion  caused, 
apparently,  by  the  contemplation  of  Colonel  Varney  and 
his  associates ;  the  instruments,  in  brief,  by  which  our  triumph 
over  our  opponents  was  to  be  effected.  And  that  same  idea 
which,  when  launched  amidst  the  surroundings  of  the  Boyne 
Club,  had  seemed  so  brilliant,  now  took  on  an  aspect  of  tawdri- 
ness.  Another  thought  intruded  itself,  —  that  of  Mr.  Pugh, 
the  president  of  the  Ribblevale  Company.  My  father  had 
known  him,  and  some  years  before  I  had  travelled  halfway 
across  the  state  in  his  company ;  his  kindliness  had  impressed 
me.  He  had  spent  a  large  part  of  his  business  life,  I  knew, 
in  building  up  the  Ribblevale,  and  now  it  was  to  be  wrested 
from  him;  he  was  to  be  set  aside,  perhaps  forced  to  start 
all  over  again  when  old  age  was  coming  on !  In  vain  I  ac 
cused  myself  of  sentimentality,  and  summoned  all  my  argu 
ments  to  prove  that  in  commerce  efficiency  must  be  the  only 
test.  The  image  of  Mr.  Pugh  would  not  down. 

I  got  up  and  turned  on  the  light,-  and  took  refuge  in  a 
novel  I  had  in  my  bag.  Presently  I  grew  calmer.  I  had 
chosen.  I  had  succeeded.  And  now  that  I  had  my  finger 
at  last  on  the  nerve  of  power,  it  was  no  time  to  weaken. 


It  was  half-past  six  when  I  awoke  and  went  to  the  window, 
relieved  to  find  that  the  sun  had  scattered  my  morbid  fancier 


164  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

with  the  darkness;  and  I  speculated,  as  I  dressed,  whether 
the  thing  called  conscience  were  not,  after  all,  a  matter  of 
nerves.  I  went  downstairs  through  the  tobacco-stale  at 
mosphere  of  the  lobby  into  the  fresh  air  and  sparkly  sun 
light  of  the  mild  February  morning,  and  leaving  the  business 
district  I , reached  the  residence  portion  of  the  little  town. 
The  front  steps  of  some  of  the  comfortable  houses  were  being 
swept  by  industrious  servant  girls,  and  out  of  the  chimneys 
twisted,  fantastically,  rich  blue  smoke;  the  bare  branches 
of  the  trees  were  silver-grey  against  the  sky;  gaining  at 
last  an  old-fashioned,  wooden  bridge,  I  stood  for  a  while 
gazing  at  the  river,  over  the  shallows  of  which  the  spend 
thrift  hand  of  nature  had  flung  a  shower  of  diamonds.  And  I 
reflected  that  the  world  was  for  the  strong,  for  him  who  dared 
reach  out  his  hand  and  take  what  it  offered.  It  was  not  money 
we  coveted,  we  Americans,  but  power,  the  self-expression 
conferred  by  power.  A  single  experience  such  as  I  had  had 
the  night  before  would  suffice  to  convince  any  sane  man 
that  democracy  was  a  failure,  that  the  world-old  principle 
of  aristocracy  would  assert  itself,  that  the  attempt  of  our 
ancestors  to  curtail  political  power  had  merely  resulted  in 
the  growth  of  another  and  greater  economic  power  that 
bade  fair  to  be  limitless.  As  I  walked  slowly  back  into  town 
I  felt  a  reluctance  to  return  to  the  noisy  hotel,  and  finding 
myself  in  front  of  a  little  restaurant  on  a  side  street,  I  entered 
it.  There  was  but  one  other  customer  in  the  place,  and  he 
was  seated  on  the  far  side  of  the  counter,  with  a  newspaper 
in  front  of  him ;  and  while  I  was  ordering  my  breakfast  I 
was  vaguely  aware  that  the  newspaper  had  dropped,  and  that 
he  was  looking  at  me.  In  the  slight  interval  that  elapsed 
before  my  brain  could  register  his  identity  I  experienced  a 
distinct  shock  of  resentment;  a  sense  of  the  reintrusion  of 
an  antagonistic  value  at  a  moment  when  it  was  most  unwel 
come.  .  .  . 

The  man  had  risen  and  was  coming  around  the  counter. 
He  was  Hermann  Krebs. 

"Why,  Paret!"  I  heard  him  say. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  165 

"You  here?"  I  exclaimed. 

He  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  lack  of  cordiality  in  my 
tone.  He  appeared  so  genuinely  glad  to  see  me  again  that 
I  instantly  became  rather  ashamed  of  my  ill  nature. 

"Yes,  I'm  here  —  in  the  legislature,"  he  informed  me. 

"A  Solon!" 

"Exactly."    He  smiled.     "And  you?"  he  inquired. 

"Oh,  I'm  only  a  spectator.     Down  here  for  a  day  or  two." 

He  was  still  lanky,  his  clothes  gave  no  evidence  of  an  in 
creased  prosperity,  but  his  complexion  was  good,  his  skin  had 
cleared.  I  was  more  than  ever  baffled  by  a  resolute  good 
humour,  a  simplicity  that  was  not  innocence,  a  whimsical 
touch  seemingly  indicative  of  a  state  of  mind  that  refused  to 
take  too  seriously  certain  things  on  which  I  set  store.  What 
right  had  he  to  be  contented  with  life  ? 

"Well,  I  too  am  only  a  spectator  here,"  he  laughed.  "I'm 
neither  fish,  flesh  nor  fowl,  nor  good  red  herring." 

"You  were  going  into  the  law,  weren't  you?"  I  asked. 
"I  remember  you  said  something  about  it  that  day  we  met 
at  Beverly  Farms." 

"Yes,  I  managed  it,  after  all.  Then  I  went  back  home  — 
to  Elkington  —  to  try  to  make  a  living." 

"But  somehow  I  have  never  thought  of  you  as  being 
likely  to  develop  political  aspirations,  Krebs,"  I  said. 

"I  should  say  not!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yet  here  you  are,  launched  upon  a  political  career !  How 
did  it  happen?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  worrying  about  the  career,"  he  assured  me. 
"I  got  here  by  accident,  and  I'm  afraid  it  won't  happen 
again  in  a  hurry.  You  see,  the  hands  in  those  big  mills  we 
have  in  Elkington  sprang  a  surprise  on  the  machine,  and  the 
first  thing  I  knew  I  was  nominated  for  the  legislature.  A 
committee  came  to  my  boarding-house  and  told  me,  ami 
there  was  the  deuce  to  pay,  right  off.  The  Railroad  politi 
cians  turned  in  and  worked  for  the  Democratic  candidate, 
of  course,  and  the  Hutchinses,  who  own  the  mills,  tried 
through  emissaries  to  intimidate  their  operatives." 


166  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

"And  then?"  Tasked. 

"Well,  —  I'm  here,"  he  said. 

"Wouldn't  you  be  accomplishing  more,"  I  inquired,  "if 
you  hadn't  antagonized  the  Hutchinses?" 

"It  depends  upon  what  you  mean  by  accomplishment," 
he  answered,  so  mildly  that  I  felt  more  ruffled  than  ever. 

"Well,  from  what  you  say,  I  suppose  you're  going  in  for 
reform,  that  these  workmen  up  at  Elkington  are  not  satisfied 
with  their  conditions  and  imagine  you  can  help  to  better 
them.  Now,  provided  the  conditions  are  not  as  good  as 
they  might  be,  how  are  you  going  to  improve  them  if  you 
find  yourself  isolated  here,  as  you  say?" 

"In  other  words,  I  should  cooperate  with  Colonel  Varney 
and  other  disinterested  philanthropists,"  he  supplied,  and  I 
realized  that  I  was  losing  my  temper. 

"Well,  what  can  you  do?"  I  inquired  defiantly. 

"I  can  find  out  what's  going  on,"  he  said.  "I  have  al 
ready  learned  something,  by  the  way." 

"And  then?"  I  asked,  wondering  whether  the  implication 
were  personal. 

"Then  I  can  help  —  disseminate  the  knowledge.  I  may 
be  wrong,  but  I  have  an  idea  that  when  the  people  of  this 
country  learn  how  their  legislatures  are  conducted  they  will 
want  to  change  things." 

"That's  right  I"  echoed  the  waiter,  who  had  come  up  with 
my  griddle-cakes.  "And  you're  the  man  to  tell  'em,  Mr. 
1  Krebs." 

"It  will  need  several  thousand  of  us  to  do  that,  I'm 
afraid,"  said  Krebs,  returning  his  smile. 

My  distaste  for  the  situation  became  more  acute,  but  I 
felt  that  I  was  thrown  on  the  defensive.  I  could  not  re 
treat,  now. 

"I  think  you  are  wrong,"  I  declared,  when  the  waiter  had 
departed  to  attend  to  another  customer.  "The  people  — 
the  great  majority  of  them,  at  least  —  are  indifferent,  they 
don't  want  to  be  bothered  with  politics.  There  will  always 
be  labour  agitation,  of  course,  —  the  more  wages  those  fel- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  167 

lows  get,  the  more  they  want.  We  pay  the  highest  wages 
in  the  world  to-day,  and  the  standard  of  living  is  higher  in 
this  country  than  anywhere  else.  They'd  ruin  our  pros 
perity,  if  we'd  let  'em." 

"How  about  the  thousands  of  families  who  don't  earn 
enough  to  live  decently  even  in  tunes  of  prosperity?"  in 
quired  Krebs. 

"It's  hard,  I'll  admit,  but  the  inefficient  and  the  shift 
less  are  bound  to  suffer,  no  matter  what  form  of  government 
you  adopt." 

"You  talk  about ' standards  of  living, '  —  I  could  show  you 
some  examples  of  standards  to  make  your  heart  sick,"  he 
said.  "What  you  don't  realize,  perhaps,  is  that  low  stand 
ards  help  to  increase  the  inefficient  of  whom  you  complain." 

He  smiled  rather  sadly.  "The  prosperity  you  are  advo 
cating,"  he  added,  after  a  moment,  "is  a  mere  fiction,  it  is 
gorging  the  few  at  the  expense  of  the  many.  And  what  is 
being  done  in  this  country  is  to  store  up  an  explosive  gas  that 
some  day  will  blow  your  superstructure  to  atoms  if  you  don't 
wake  up  in  time." 

"Isn't  that  a  rather  one-sided  view,  too?"  I  suggested. 

"I've  no  doubt  it  may  appear  so,  but  take  the  proceedings 
in  this  legislature.  I've  no  doubt  you  know  something 
about  them,  and  that  you  would  maintain  they  are  justified 
on  account  of  the  indifference  of  the  public,  and  of  other 
reasons,  but  I  can  cite  an  instance  that  is  simply  legalized 
thieving."  For  the  first  time  a  note  of  indignation  crept 
into  Krebs's  voice.  "Last  night  I  discovered  by  a  mere 
accident,  in  talking  to  a  man  who  came  in  on  a  late  train, 
that  a  bill  introduced  yesterday,  which  is  being  rushed 
through  the  Judiciary  Committee  of  the  House  —  an  ap 
parently  innocent  little  bill  —  will  enable,  if  it  becomes  a 
law,  the  Boyne  Iron  Works,  of  your  city,  to  take  possession 
of  the  Ribblevale  Steel  Company,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel. 
And  I  am  told  it  was  conceived  by  a  lawyer  who  claims  to 
be  a  respectable  member  of  his  profession,  and  who  has 
extraordinary  ability,  —  Theodore  Watling." 


168  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Krebs  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  drew  out  a  paper. 

"Here's  a  copy  of  it,  —  House  Bill  709."  His  expression 
suddenly  changed.  "Perhaps  Mr.  Watling  is  a  friend  of 
yours." 

"I'm  with  his  firm,"  I  replied.  .  .  . 

Krebs's  fingers  closed  over  the  paper,  crumpling  it. 

"  Oh,  then,  you  know  about  this,"  he  said.  He  was  putting 
the  paper  back  into  his  pocket  when  I  took  it  from  him.  But 
my  adroitness,  so  carefully  schooled,  seemed  momentarily 
to  have  deserted  me.  What  should  I  say?  It  was  neces 
sary  to  decide  quickly. 

"Don't  you  take  rather  a  —  prejudiced  view  of  this, 
Krebs  ?  "  I  said.  "  Upon  my  word,  I  can't  see  why  you  should 
accept  a  rumour  running  around  the  lobbies  that  Mr.  Wat- 
ling  drafted  this  bill  for  a  particular  purpose." 

He  was  silent.    But  his  eyes  did  not  leave  my  face. 

"Why  should  any  sensible  man,  a  member  of  the  legisla 
ture,  take  stock  in  that  kind  of  gossip  ?  "  I  insisted.  "  Why  not 
judge  this  bill  by  its  face,  without  heeding  a  cock  and  bull 
story  as  to  how  it  may  have  originated?  It  is  a  good  bill, 
or  a  bad  bill?  Let's  see  what  it  says." 

I  read  it. 

"So  far  as  I  can  see,  it  is  legislation  which  we  ought  to 
have  had  long  ago,  and  tends  to  compel  a  publicity  in  cor 
poration  affairs  that  is  much  needed,  to  put  a  stop  to  prac 
tices  which  every  decent  citizen  deplores." 

He  drew  the  paper  out  of  my  hand. 

"You  needn't  go  on,  Paret,"  he  told  me.     "It's  no  use." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  we  don't  agree,"  I  said,  and  got  up.  I 
left  him  twisting  the  paper  in  his  fingers. 


Beside  the  clerk's  desk  in  the  Potts  House,  relating  one 
of  his  anecdotes,  I  spied  Colonel  Varney,  and  managed 
presently  to  draw  him  upstairs  to  his  room. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  169 

"Do  you  know  a  man  named  Krebs  in  the  House?"  I 
said. 

"From  Elkington?  Why,  that's  the  man  the  Hutchinses 
let  slip  through,  —  the  Hutchinses,  who  own  the  mills  over 
there.  The  agitators  put  up  a  job  on  them."  The  Colonel 
was  no  longer  the  genial  and  social  purveyor  of  anecdotes. 
He  had  become  tense,  alert,  suspicious.  "  What's  he  up  to  ?  " 

"He's  found  out  about  this  bill,"  I  replied. 

"How?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  someone  told  him  that  it  originated 
in  our  office,  and  that  we  were  going  to  use  it  in  our  suit 
against  the  Ribblevale." 

I  related  the  circumstances  of  my  running  across  Krebs, 
speaking  of  having  known  him  at  Harvard.  Colonel  Varney 
uttered  an  oath,  and  strode  across  to  the  window,  where  he 
stood  looking  down  into  the  street  from  between  the  lace  cur 
tains. 

"We'll  have  to  attend  to  him,  right  off,"  he  said. 

I  was  surprised  to  find  myself  resenting  the  imputation, 
and  deeply.  "I'm  afraid  he's  one  of  those  who  can't  be 
'  attended  to, '  "  I  answered. 

"You  mean  that  he's  in  the  employ  of  the  Ribblevale 
people?"  the  Colonel  inquired. 

"I  don't  mean  anything  of  the  kind,"  I  retorted,  with 
more  heat,  perhaps,  than  I  realized.  The  Colonel  looked 
at  me  queerly. 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Paret.  Of  course  I  don't  want  to 
question  your  judgment,  sir.  And  you  say  he's  a  friend  of 
yours." 

"I  said  I  knew  him  at  college." 

"But  you  will  pardon  me,"  the  Colonel  went  on,  "when 
I  tell  you  that  I've  had  some  experience  with  that  breed, 
and  I  have  yet  to  see  one  of  'em  you  couldn't  come  to  terms 
with  in  some  way  —  in  some  way"  he  added,  significantly. 
I  did  not  pause  to  reflect  that  the  Colonel's  attitude,  from 
his  point  of  view  (yes,  and  from  mine,  —  had  I  not  adopted 
it  ?)  was  the  logical  one.  In  that  philosophy  every  man  had 


170  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

his  price,  or  his  weakness.  Yet,  such  is  the  inconsistency 
of  human  nature,  I  was  now  unable  to  contemplate  this 
attitude  with  calmness. 

"Mr.  Krebs  is  a  lawyer.  Has  he  accepted  a  pass  from 
the  Railroad?"  I  demanded,  knowing  the  custom  of  that 
corporation  of  conferring  this  delicate  favour  on  the  prom 
ising  young  talent  in  my  profession. 

"I  reckon  he's  never  had  the  chance,"  said  Mr.  Varney. 

"Well,  has  he  taken  a  pass  as  a  member  of  the  legislature  ? " 

"No,  —  I  remember  looking  that  up  when  he  first  came 
down.  Sent  that  back,  if  I  recall  the  matter  correctly." 
Colonel  Varney  went  to  a  desk  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
unlocked  it,  drew  forth  a  black  book,  and  running  his 
fingers  through  the  pages  stopped  at  the  letter  K.  "Yes, 
sent  back  his  legislative  pass,  but  I've  known  'em  to  do 
that  when  they  were  holding  out  for  something  more.  There 
must  be  somebody  who  can  get  close  to  him." 

The  Colonel  ruminated  awhile.  Then  he  strode  to  the 
door  and  called  out  to  the  group  of  men  who  were  always 
lounging  in  the  hall. 

"Tell  Alf  Young  I  want  to  see  him,  Fred." 

I  waited,  by  no  means  free  from  uneasiness  and  anxiety, 
from  a  certain  lack  of  self-respect  that  was  unfamiliar.  Mr. 
Young,  the  Colonel  explained,  was  a  legal  light  in  Galesburg, 
near  Elkington,  —  the  Railroad  lawyer  there.  And  when 
at  last  Mr.  Young  appeared  he  proved  to  be  an  oily  gentle 
man  of  about  forty,  inclining  to  stoutness,  with  one  of 
those  "blue,"  shaven  faces. 

"Want  me,  Colonel?"  he  inquired  blithely,  when  the  door 
had  closed  behind  him ;  and  added  obsequiously,  when  in 
troduced  to  me,  "Glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Paret.  My  re 
gards  to  Mr.  Watling,  when  you  go  back." 

"Alf,"  demanded  the  Colonel,  "what  do  you  know  of 
this  fellow  Krebs?" 

Mr.  Young  laughed.  Krebs  was  "nutty,"  he  declared  — 
that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 

"Won't  he  — listen  to  reason?" 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  171 

"It's  been  tried,  Colonel.  Say,  he  wouldn't  know  a 
hundred-dollar  bill,  if  you  showed  him  one." 

"What  does  he  want?" 

"Oh,  something,  —  that's  sure,  they  all  want  something." 
Mr.  Young  shrugged  his  shoulder  expressively,  and  by  a 
skilful  manipulation  of  his  lips  shifted  his  cigar  from  one 
side  of  his  mouth  to  the  other  without  raising  his  hands. 
"But  it  ain't  money.  I  guess  he's  got  a  notion  that  later 
on  the  labour  unions'll  send  him  to  the  United  States  Senate 
some  day.  He's  no  slouch,  either,  when  it  comes  to  law.  I 
can  tell  you  that." 

"No  —  no  flaw  in  his  —  record? "  Colonel  Varney's  agate 
eyes  sought  those  of  Mr.  Young,  meaningly. 

"That's  been  tried,  too,"  declared  the  Galesburg  attorney. 
"Say,  you  can  believe  it  or  not,  but  we've  never  dug  any 
thing  up  so  far.  He's  been  too  slick  for  us,  I  guess." 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  the  Colonel,  at  length,  "  let  him  squeal 

and  be  d d !  He  can't  do  any  more  than  make  a  noise. 

Only  I  hoped  we'd  be  able  to  grease  this  thing  along  and  slide 
it  through  the  Senate  this  afternoon  before  they  got  wind 
of  it." 

"He'll  squeal,  all  right,  until  you  smother  him,"  Mr. 
Young  observed. 

"We'll  smother  him  some  day!"  replied  the  Colonel, 
savagely. 

Mr.  Young  laughed. 

But  as  I  made  my  way  toward  the  State  House  I  was  con 
scious  of  a  feeling  of  relief.  I  had  no  sooner  gained  a  front 
seat  in  the  gallery  of  the  House  of  Representatives  when  the 
members  rose,  the  Senate  marched  gravely  in,  the  Speaker 
stopped  jesting  with  the  Chaplain,  and  over  the  Chaplain's 
face  came  suddenly  an  agonized  expression.  Folding  his 
hands  across  his  stomach  he  began  to  call  on  God  with  ter 
rific  fervour,  in  an  intense  and  resounding  voice.  I  was  struck 
suddenly  by  the  irony  of  it  all.  Why  have  a  legislature  when 
Colonel  Paul  Varney  was  so  efficient !  The  legislature  was 
a  mere  sop  to  democratic  prejudice,  to  pray  over  it  height- 


172  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

ened  the  travesty.  Suppose  there  were  a  God  after  all  ?  not 
necessarily  the  magnified  monarch  to  whom  these  pseudo- 
democrats  prayed,  but  an  Intelligent  Force  that  makes  for 
righteousness.  How  did  He,  or  It,  like  to  be  trifled  with  in 
this  way?  And,  if  He  existed,  would  not  His  disgust  be 
immeasurable  as  He  contemplated  that  unctuous  figure  in 
the  "Prince  Albert"  coat,  who  pretended  to  represent  Him? 
...  As  the  routine  business  began  I  searched  for  Krebs, 
to  find  him  presently  at  a  desk  beside  a  window  in  the  rear  of 
the  hall  making  notes  on  a  paper;  there  was,  confessedly, 
little  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  the  man  whose  gaunt 
features  I  contemplated  was  merely  one  of  those  impractical 
idealists  who  beat  themselves  to  pieces  against  the  forces 
that  sway  the  world  and  must  forever  sway  it.  I  should  be 
compelled  to  admit  that  he  represented  something  unique 
in  that  assembly  if  he  had  the  courage  to  get  up  and  oppose 
House  Bill  709.  I  watched  him  narrowly;  the  suggestion 
intruded  itself  —  perhaps  he  had  been  "seen,"  as  the  Colo 
nel  expressed  it.  I  repudiated  it.  I  grew  impatient, 
feverish;  the  monotonous  reading  of  the  clerk  was  inter 
rupted  now  and  then  by  the  sharp  tones  of  the  Speaker  as 
signing  his  various  measures  to  this  or  that  committee,  "  un 
less  objection  is  offered,"  while  the  members  moved  about 
and  murmured  among  themselves;  Krebs  had  stopped 
making  notes ;  he  was  looking  out  of  the  window.  At  last, 
without  any  change  of  emphasis  in  his  droning  voice,  the 
clerk  announced  the  recommendation  of  the  Committee  on 
Judiciary  that  House  Bill  709  ought  to  pass. 

Down  in  front  a  man  had  risen  from  his  seat  —  the  felic 
itous  Mr.  Truesdale.  Glancing  around  at  his  fellow-mem 
bers  he  then  began  to  explain  in  the  impressive  but  conver 
sational  tone  of  one  whose  counsels  are  in  the  habit  of 
being  listened  to,  that  this  was  merely  a  little  measure  to 
remedy  a  flaw  in  the  statutes.  Mr.  Truesdale  believed  in 
corporations  when  corporations  were  good,  and  this  bill  was 
calculated  to  make  them  good,  to  put  an  end  to  jugglery  and 
concealment.  Our  great  state,  he  said,  should  be  in  the  fore- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  173 

front  of  such  wise  legislation,  which  made  for  justice  and 
a  proper  publicity ;  but  the  bill  in  question  was  of  greater 
interest  to  lawyers  than  to  laymen,  a  committee  composed 
largely  of  lawyers  had  recommended  it  unanimously,  and  he 
was  sure  that  no  opposition  would  develop  in  the  House. 
In  order  not  to  take  up  their  time  he  asked,  therefore,  that 
it  be  immediately  put  on  its  second  and  third  reading  and 
allowed  to  pass. 

He  sat  down,  and  I  looked  at  Krebs.  Could  he,  could  any 
man,  any  lawyer,  have  the  presumption  to  question  such  ai> 
obviously  desirable  measure,  to  arraign  the  united  judgment 
of  the  committee's  legal  talent?  Such  was  the  note  Mr. 
Truesdale  so  admirably  struck.  As  though  fascinated,  1 
continued  to  gaze  at  Krebs.  I  hated  him,  I  desired  to  see 
him  humilated,  and  yet  amazingly  I  found  myself  wishing 
with  almost  equal  vehemence  that  he  would  be  true  to  him 
self.  He  was  rising,  —  slowly,  timidly,  I  thought,  his  hand 
clutching  his  desk  lid,  his  voice  sounding  wholly  inadequate 
as  he  addressed  the  Speaker.  The  Speaker  hesitated,  his 
tone  palpably  supercilious. 

"The  gentleman  from  —  from  Elkington,  Mr.  Krebs." 

There  was  a  craning  of  necks,  a  staring,  a  tittering.  I 
burned  with  vicarious  shame  as  Krebs  stood  there  awk 
wardly,  his  hand  still  holding  the  desk.  There  were  cries  of 
" louder"  when  he  began ;  some  picked  up  their  newspapers, 
while  others  started  conversations.  The  Speaker  rapped  with 
his  gavel,  and  I  failed  to  hear  the  opening  words.  Krebs  paused, 
and  began  again.  His  speech  did  not,  at  first,  flow  easily. 

"Mr.  Speaker,  I  rise  to  protest  against  this  bill,  which  in 
my  opinion  is  not  so  innocent  as  the  gentleman  from  St. 
Helen's  would  have  the  House  believe.  It  is  on  a  par,  indeed, 
with  other  legislation  that  in  past  years  has  been  engineered 
through  this  legislature  under  the  guise  of  beneficent  law. 
No,  not  on  a  par.  It  is  the  most  arrogant,  the  most  mon 
strous  example  of  special  legislation  of  them  all.  And  while 
I  do  not  expect  to  be  able  to  delay  its  passage  much  longer 
than  the  time  I  shall  be  on  my  feet  —  " 


174  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Then  why  not  sit  down?"  came  a  voice,  just  audible. 

As  he  turned  swiftly  toward  the  offender  his  profile  had  an 
eagle-like  effect  that  startled  me,  seemingly  realizing  a  new 
quality  in  the  man.  It  was  as  though  he  had  needed  just 
the  stimulus  of  that  interruption  to  electrify  and  transform 
him.  His  awkwardness  disappeared ;  and  if  he  was  a  little 
bombastic,  a  little  "young,"  he  spoke  with  the  fire  of  con 
viction. 

"Because,"  he  cried,  "  because  I  should  lose  my  self-respect 
for  life  if  I  sat  here  and  permitted  the  political  organization 
of  a  railroad,  the  members  of  which  are  here  under  the  guise 
of  servants  of  the  people,  to  cow  me  into  silence.  And  if  it 
be  treason  to  mention  the  name  of  that  Railroad  in  connec 
tion,  with  its  political  tyranny,  then  make  the  most  of  it." 
He  let  go  of  the  desk,  and  tapped  the  copy  of  the  bill.  "  What 
are  the  facts  ?  The  Boyne  Iron  Works,  under  the  presidency 
of  Adolf  Scherer,  has  been  engaged  in  litigation  with  the  Rib- 
blevale  Steel  Company  for  some  years :  and  this  bill  is  in 
tended  to  put  into  the  hands  of  the  attorneys  for  Mr.  Scherer 
certain  information  that  will  enable  him  to  get  possession 
of  the  property.  Gentlemen,  that  is  what  'legal  practice* 
has  descended  to  in  the  hands  of  respectable  lawyers.  This 
device  originated  with  the  resourceful  Mr.  Theodore  Wat- 
ling,  and  if  it  had  not  had  the  approval  of  Mr.  Miller  Gorse, 
it  would  never  have  got  any  farther  than  the  judiciary  com 
mittee.  It  was  confided  to  the  skilful  care  of  Colonel  Paul 
Varney  to  be  steered  through  this  legislature,  as  hundreds 
of  other  measures  have  been  steered  through,  —  without 
unnecessary  noise.  It  may  be  asked  why  the  Railroad  should 
bother  itself  by  lending  its  political  organization  to  private 
corporations?  I  will  tell  you.  Because  corporations  like 
the  Boyne  corporation  are  a  part  of  a  network  of  interests, 
these  corporations  aid  the  Railroad  to  maintain  its  mo 
nopoly,  and  in  return  receive  rebates." 

Krebs  had  raised  his  voice  as  the  murmurs  became  louder. 
At  this  point  a  sharp-faced  lawyer  from  Belfast  got  to  his  feet 
and  objected  that  the  gentleman  from  Elkington  was  wasting 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  175 

the  time  of  the  House,  indulging  in  hearsay.  His  remarks 
were  not  germane,  etc.  The  Speaker  rapped  again,  with  a 
fine  show  of  impartiality,  and  cautioned  the  member  from 
Elkington. 

"Very  well,"  replied  Krebs.  "I  have  said  what  I  wanted 
to  say  on  that  score,  and  I  know  it  to  be  the  truth.  And  if 
this  House  does  not  find  it  germane,  the  day  is  coming  when 
its  constituents  will." 

Whereupon  he  entered  into  a  discussion  of  the  bill,  dis 
secting  it  with  more  calmness,  with  an  ability  that  must 
have  commanded,  even  from  some  hostile  minds,  an  unwill 
ing  respect.  The  penalty,  he  said,  was  outrageous,  hitherto 
unheard  of  in  law,  —  putting  a  corporation  in  the  hands  of  a 
receiver,  at  the  mercy  of  those  who  coveted  it,  because  one 
of  its  officers  refused,  or  was  unable,  to  testify.  He  might 
be  in  China,  in  Timbuctoo  when  the  summons  was  delivered 
at  his  last  or  usual  place  of  abode.  Here  was  an  enormity, 
an  exercise  of  tyrannical  power  exceeding  all  bounds,  a 
travesty  on  popular  government.  .  .  .  He  ended  by  point 
ing  out  the  significance  of  the  fact  that  the  committee  had 
given  no  hearings ;  by  declaring  that  if  the  bill  became  a  law, 
it  would  inevitably  react  upon  the  heads  of  those  who  were 
responsible  for  it. 

He  sat  down,  and  there  was  a  flutter  of  applause  from  the 
scattered  audience  in  the  gallery. 

"  By  God,  that's  the  only  man  in  the  whole  place !" 

I  was  aware,  for  the  first  time,  of  a  neighbour  at  my  side, 
—  a  solid,  red-faced  man,  evidently  a  farmer.  His  trousers 
were  tucked  into  his  boots,  and  his  gnarled  and  powerful 
hands,  ingrained  with  dirt,  clutched  the  arms  of  the  seat  as 
he  leaned  forward. 

"Didn't  he  just  naturally  lambaste  'em?"  he  cried  excit 
edly.  "They'll  down  him,  I  guess,  —  but  say,  he's  right. 
A  man  would  lose  his  self-respect  if  he  didn't  let  out  his  mind 
at  them  boss  thieves,  wouldn't  he?  What's  that  fellow's 
name?" 

I  told  him. 


176  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Krebs,"  he  repeated.  "I  want  to  remember  that. 
Durned  if  I  don't  shake  hands  with  him." 

His  excitement  astonished  me.  Would  the  public  feel  like 
that,  if  they  only  knew?  .  .  .  The  Speaker's  gavel  had 
come  down  like  a  pistol  shot. 

One  "war-hoss" —  as  my  neighbour  called  then: — after 
another  proceeded  to  crush  the  member  from  Elkington.  It 
was,  indeed,  very  skilfully  done,  and  yet  it  was  a  process 
from  which  I  did  not  derive,  somehow,  much  pleasure.  Colo 
nel  Varney's  army  had  been  magnificently  trained  to  meet 
just  this  kind  of  situation :  some  employed  ridicule,  others 
declared,  in  impassioned  tones,  that  the  good  name  of  their 
state  had  been  wantonly  assailed,  and  pointed  fervently  to 
portraits  on  the  walls  of  patriots  of  the  past,  —  sentiments 
that  drew  applause  from  the  fickle  gallery.  One  gentleman 
observed  that  the  obsession  of  a  "railroad  machine"  was  a 
sure  symptom  of  a  certain  kind  of  insanity,  of  which  the  first 
speaker  had  given  many  other  evidences.  The  farmer  at  my 
side  remained  staunch. 

"They  can't  fool  me,"  he  said  angrily,  "I  know  'em.  Do 
you  see  that  fellow  gettin'  up  to  talk  now?  Well,  I  could 
tell  you  a  few  things  about  him,  all  right.  He  comes  from 
Glasgow,  and  his  name's  Letchworth.  He's  done  more 
harm  in  his  life  than  all  the  criminals  he's  kept  out  of  prison, 
—  belongs  to  one  of  the  old  families  down  there,  too." 

I  had,  indeed,  remarked  Letchworth's  face,  which  seemed 
to  me  peculiarly  evil,  its  lividity  enhanced  by  a  shock  of 
grey  hair.  His  method  was  withering  sarcasm,  and  he  was 
clearly  unable  to  control  his  animus.  .  .  . 

No  champion  appeared  to  support  Krebs,  who  sat  pale 
and  tense  while  this  denunciation  of  him  was  going  on. 
Finally  he  got  the  floor.  His  voice  trembled  a  little,  whether 
with  passion,  excitement,  or  nervousness  it  was  impossible 
to  say.  But  he  contented  himself  with  a  brief  defiance.  If 
the  bill  passed,  he  declared,  the  men  who  voted  for  it,  the 
men  who  were  behind  it,  would  ultimately  be  driven  from 
political  Me  by  an  indignant  public.  He  had  a  higher  opin- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  177 

ion  of  the  voters  of  the  state  than  those  who  accused  him  of 
slandering  it,  than  those  who  sat  silent  and  had  not  lifted 
their  voices  against  this  crime. 

When  the  bill  was  put  to  a  vote  he  demanded  a  roll  call. 
Ten  members  besides  himself  were  recorded  against  House 
Bill  No.  709! 


In  spite  of  this  overwhelming  triumph  my  feelings  were 
not  wholly  those  of  satisfaction  when  I  returned  to  the  hotel 
and  listened  to  the  exultations  and  denunciations  of  such  poli 
ticians  as  Letchworth,  Young,  and  Colonel  Varney.  Perhaps 
an  image  suggesting  Hermann  Krebs  as  some  splendid  animal 
at  bay,  dragged  down  by  the  hounds,  is  too  strong :  he  had 
been  ingloriously  crushed,  and  defeat,  even  for  the  sake  of 
conviction,  was  not  an  inspiring  spectacle.  ...  As  the 
chase  swept  on  over  his  prostrate  figure  I  rapidly  regained 
poise  and  a  sense  of  proportion;  a  "master  of  life"  could 
not  permit  himself  to  be  tossed  about  by  sentimentality; 
and  gradually  I  grew  ashamed  of  my  bad  quarter  of  an  hour 
in  the  gallery  of  the  House,  and  of  the  effect  of  it  —  which 
lingered  awhile  —  as  of  a  weakness  suddenly  revealed,  which 
must  at  all  costs  be  overcome.  I  began  to  see  something 
dramatic  and  sensational  in  Krebs's  performance.  ... 

The  Ribblevale  Steel  Company  was  the  real  quarry,  after 
all.  And  such  had  been  the  expedition,  the  skill  and  secrecy, 
with  which  our  affair  was  conducted,  that  before  the  Ribble 
vale  lawyers  could  arrive,  alarmed  and  breathless,  the  bill 
had  passed  the  House,  and  their  only  real  chance  of  halting 
it  had  been  lost.  For  the  Railroad  controlled  the  House, 
not  by  owning  the  individuals  composing  it,  but  through  the 
leaders  who  dominated  it,  —  men  like  Letchworth  and  Trues- 
dale.  These,  and  Colonel  Varney,  had  seen  to  it  that  men 
who  had  any  parliamentary  ability  had  been  attended  to ;  all 
save  Krebs,  who  had  proved  a  surprise.  There  were  indeed 
certain  members  who,  although  they  had  railroad  passes  in 
their  pockets  (which  were  regarded  as  just  perquisites, — 


178  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

the  Railroad  being  so  rich !),  would  have  opposed  the  bill  if 
they  had  felt  sufficiently  sure  of  themselves  to  cope  with  such 
veterans  as  Letchworth.  Many  of  these  had  allowed  them 
selves  to  be  won  over  or  cowed  by  the  oratory  which  had 
crushed  Krebs. 

Nor  did  the  Ribblevale  people  —  be  it  recorded  —  scruple 
to  fight  fire  with  fire.  Their  existence,  of  course,  was  at  stake, 
and  there  was  no  public  to  appeal  to.  A  part  of  the  legal 
army  that  rushed  to  the  aid  of  our  adversaries  spent  the 
afternoon  and  most  of  the  night  organizing  all  those  who 
could  be  induced  by  one  means  or  another  to  reverse  their 
sentiments,  and  in  searching  for  the  few  who  had  grievances 
against  the  existing  power.  The  following  morning  a  motion 
was  introduced  to  reconsider;  and  in  the  debate  that  fol 
lowed,  Krebs,  still  defiant,  took  an  active  part.  But  the 
resolution  required  a  two-thirds  vote,  and  was  lost. 

When  the  battle  was  shifted  to  the  Senate  it  was  as  good 
as  lost.  The  Judiciary  Committee  of  the  august  body  did 
indeed  condescend  to  give  hearings,  at  which  the  Ribblevale 
lawyers  exhausted  their  energy  and  ingenuity  without  result : 
with  only  two  dissenting  votes  the  bill  was  calmly  passed. 
In  vain  was  the  Governor  besieged,  entreated,  threatened, 
—  it  was  said ;  Mr.  Trulease  had  informed  protesters  —  so 
Colonel  Varney  gleefully  reported  —  that  he  had  "become 
fully  convinced  of  the  inherent  justice  of  the  measure."  On 
Saturday  morning  he  signed  it,  and  it  became  a  law.  ...  I 

Colonel  Varney,  as  he  accompanied  me  to  the  train,  did' 
not  conceal  his  jubilation. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say  it,  Mr.  Paret,  but  it  couldn't 
have  been  done  neater.  That's  the  art  in  these  little  affairs, 
to  get  'em  runnin'  fast,  to  get  momentum  on  'em  before  the 
other  party  wakes  up,  and  then  he  can't  stop  'em."  As  he 
shook  hands  in  farewell  he  added,  with  more  gravity :  "  We'll 
see  each  other  often,  sir,  I  guess.  My  very  best  regards  to 
Mr.  Watling." 

Needless  to  say,  I  had  not  confided  to  him  the  part  I  had 
played  in  originating  House  Bill  No.  709,  now  a  law  of  the 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  179 

state.  But  as  the  train  rolled  on  through  the  sunny  winter 
landscape  a  sense  of  well-being,  of  importance  and  power 
began  to  steal  through  me.  I  was  victoriously  bearing 
home  my  first  scalp,  —  one  which  was  by  no  means  to  be 
despised.  ...  It  was  not  until  we  reached  Rossiter,  about 
five  o'clock,  that  I  was  able  to  get  the  evening  newspapers. 
Such  was  the  perfection  of  the  organization  of  which  I  might 
now  call  myself  an  integral  part  that  the  "best"  publications 
contained  only  the  barest  mention,  —  and  that  in  the  legis 
lative  news,  —  of  the  signing  of  the  bill.  I  read  with  com 
placency  and  even  with  amusement  the  flaring  headlines  I 
had  anticipated  in  Mr.  Lawler's  Pilot. 

"The  Governor  Signs  It  1" 

"  Special  legislation,  forced  through  by  the  Railroad  Lobby, 
which  will  drive  honest  corporations  from  this  state." 

"Ribblevale  Steel  Company  the  Victim." 

It  was  common  talk  in  the  capital,  the  article  went  on  to 
say,  that  Theodore  Watling  himself  had  drawn  up  the 
measure.  .  .  .  Perusing  the  editorial  page  my  eye  fell  on 
the  name,  Krebs.  One  member  of  the  legislature  above  all 
deserved  the  gratitude  of  the  people  of  the  state,  —  the 
member  from  Elkington.  "An  unknown  man,  elected  in 
spite  of  the  opposition  of  the  machine,  he  had  dared  to  raise 
his  voice  against  this  iniquity,"  etc.,  etc. 

We  had  won.  That  was  the  essential  thing.  And  my 
legal  experience  had  taught  me  that  victory  counts ;  defeat 
is  soon  forgotten.  Even  the  discontented,  half-baked  and 
heterogeneous  element  from  which  the  Pilot  got  its  circu 
lation  had  short  memories. 


XI 


THE  next  morning,  which  was  Sunday,  I  went  to  Mr.  Wat- 
ling's  house  in  Fillmore  Street  —  a  new  residence  at  that 
time,  being  admired  as  the  dernier  cri  in  architecture.  It 
had  a  mediaeval  look,  queer  dormers  in  a  steep  roof  of  red 
tiles,  leaded  windows  buried  deep,  in  walls  of  rough  stone. 
Emerging  from  the  recessed  vestibule  on  a  level  with  the 
street  were  the  Watling  twins,  aglow  with  health,  dressed 
in  identical  costumes  of  blue.  They  had  made  their  bow  to 
society  that  winter. 

"Why,  here's  Hugh!"  said  Frances.  "Doesn't  he  look 
pleased  with  himself?" 

"He's  come  to  take  us  to  church,"  said  Janet. 

"Oh,  he's  much  too  important,"  said  Frances.  "He's 
made  a  killing  of  some  sort,  —  haven't  you,  Hugh?"  .  .  . 

I  rang  the  bell  and  stood  watching  them  as  they  departed, 
reflecting  that  I  was  thirty-two  years  of  age  and  unmarried. 
Mr.  Watling,  surrounded  with  newspapers  and  seated  before 
his  library  fire,  glanced  up  at  me  with  a  welcoming  smile: 
how  had  I  borne  the  legislative  baptism  of  fire?  Such,  I 
knew,  was  its  implication. 

"Everything  went  through  according  to  schedule,  eh? 
Well,  I  congratulate  you,  Hugh,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  have  much  to  do  with  it,"  I  answered,  smil 
ing  back  at  him.  "I  kept  out  of  sight." 

"That's  an  art  in  itself." 

"  I  had  an  opportunity,  at  close  range,  to  study  the  methods 
of  our  lawmakers." 

"They're  not  particularly  edifying,"  Mr.  Watling  replied. 
"But  they  seem,  unfortunately,  to  be  necessary." 

180 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  181 

Such  had  been  my  own  thought. 

"Who  is  this  man  Krebs?"  he  inquired  suddenly.  "And 
why  didn't  Varney  get  hold  of  him  and  make  him  listen  to 
reason?" 

"  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  have  been  any  use,"  I  replied.  "  He 
was  in  my  class  at  Harvard.  I  knew  him  —  slightly.  He 
worked  his  way  through,  and  had  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it. 
I  imagine  it  affected  his  ideas." 

"What  is  he,  a  Socialist?" 

"Something  of  the  sort."  In  Theodore  Watling's  vigor 
ous,  sanity-exhaling  presence  Krebs's  act  appeared  fantastic, 
ridiculous.  "He  has  queer  notions  about  a  new  kind  of 
democracy  which  he  says  is  coming.  I  think  he  is  the  kind 
of  man  who  would  be  willing  to  die  for  it." 

"What,  in  these  days!"  Mr.  Watling  looked  at  me  in 
credulously.  "  If  that's  so,  we  must  keep  an  eye  on  him,  — 
a  sincere  fanatic  is  a  good  deal  more  dangerous  than  a  re 
former  who  wants  something.  There  are  such  men,"  he 
added,  "  but  they  are  rare.  How  was  the  Governor,  — 
Trulease  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly.  "  Tractable  ?  " 

"Behaved  like  a  lamb,  although  he  insisted  upon  going 
through  with  his  little  humbug,"  I  said. 

Mr.  Watling  laughed.  "They  always  do,"  he  observed, 
"and  waste  a  lot  of  valuable  time.  You'll  find  some  light 
cigars  in  the  corner,  Hugh." 

I  sat  down  beside  him  and  we  spent  the  morning  going 
over  the  details  of  the  Ribblevale  suit,  Mr.  Watling  delegat 
ing  to  me  certain  matters  connected  with  it  of  a  kind  with 
Avhich  I  had  not  hitherto  been  entrusted ;  and  he  spoke  again, 
before  I  left,  of  his  intention  of  taking  me  into  the  firm  as  soon 
as  the  affair  could  be  arranged.  Walking  homeward,  with 
my  mind  intent  upon  things  to  come,  I  met  my  mother  at 
the  corner  of  Lyme  Street  coming  from  church.  Her  face 
lighted  up  at  sight  of  me. 

"  Have  you  been  working  to-day,  Hugh  ?  "  she  asked. 

I  explained  that  I  had  spent  the  morning  with  Mr.  Wat- 
ling. 


182  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"  I'll  tell  you  a  secret,  mother.  I'm  going  to  be  taken  into 
the  firm." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  so  glad!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  often 
think,  if  only  your  father  were  alive,  how  happy  he  would  be, 
and  how  proud  of  you.  I  wish  he  could  know.  Perhaps 
he  does  know." 


Theodore  Watling  had  once  said  to  me  that  the  man  who 
can  best  keep  his  own  counsel  is  the  best  counsel  for  other 
men  to  keep.  I  did  not  go  about  boasting  of  the  part  I  had 
played  in  originating  the  now  famous  Bill  No.  709,  the  pas 
sage  of  which  had  brought  about  the  capitulation  of  the 
Ribblevale  Steel  Company  to  our  clients.  But  Ralph  Ham- 
bleton  knew  of  it,  of  course. 

"That  was  a  pretty  good  thing  you  pulled  qff,  Hughie," 
he  said.  "  I  didn't  think  you  had  it  in  you." 

It  was  rank  patronage,  of  course,  yet  I  was  secretly  pleased. 
As  the  years  went  on  I  was  thrown  more  and  more  with  him, 
though  in  boyhood  there  had  been  between  us  no  bond  of 
sympathy.  About  this  time  he  was  beginning  to  increase 
very  considerably  the  Hambleton  fortune,  and  a  little  later 
I  became  counsel  for  the  Crescent  Gas  and  Electric  Company, 
in  which  he  had  shrewdly  gained  a  controlling  interest.  Even 
toward  the  colossal  game  of  modern  finance  his  attitude  was , 
characteristically  that  of  the  dilettante,  of  the  amateur ;  he  \ 
played  it,  as  it  were,  contemptuously,  even  as  he  had  played 
poker  at  Harvard,  with  a  cynical  audacity  that  had  a  pecul 
iarly  disturbing  effect  upon  his  companions.  He  bluffed,  he 
raised  the  limit  in  spite  of  protests,  and  when  he  lost  one 
always  had  the  feeling  that  he  would  ultimately  get  his 
money  back  twice  over.  At  the  conferences  in  the  Boyne 
Club,  which  he  often  attended,  his  manner  toward  Mr.  Dick 
inson  and  Mr.  Scherer  and  even  toward  Miller  Gorse  was 
frequently  one  of  thinly  veiled  amusement  at  their  serious 
ness.  I  often  wondered  that  they  did  not  resent  it.  But 
he  was  a  privileged  person. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  183 

His  cousin,  Ham  Durrett,  whose  inheritance  was  even 
greater  than  Ralph's  had  been,  had  also  become  a  privileged 
person  whose  comings  and  goings  and  more  reputable  doings 
were  often  recorded  in  the  newspapers.  Ham  had  attained 
to  what  Gene  Hollister  aptly  but  inadvertently  called  "  noto 
riety"  :  as  Ralph  wittily  remarked,  Ham  gave  to  polo  and 
women  that  which  might  have  gone  into  high  finance.  He 
spent  much  of  his  time  in  the  East ;  his  conduct  there  and 
at  home  would  once  have  created  a  black  scandal  in  our 
community,  but  we  were  gradually  leaving  our  Calvinism 
behind  us  and  growing  more  tolerant :  we  were  ready  to 
forgive  much  to  wealth  —  especially  if  it  was  inherited. 
Hostesses  lamented  the  fact  that  Ham  was  "wild,"  but  they 
asked  him  to  dinners  and  dances  to  meet  their  daughters. 
If  some  moralist  better  educated  and  more  far-seeing  than 
Perry  Blackwood  (for  Perry  had  become  a  moralist)  had 
told  these  hostesses  that  Hambleton  Durrett  was  a  victim 
of  our  new  civilization,  they  would  have  raised  their  eye 
brows.  They  deplored  while  they  coveted.  If  Ham  had 
been  told  he  was  a  victim  of  any  sort,  he  would  have  laughed. 
He  enjoyed  life;  he  was  genial  and  jovial,  both  lavish  and 
parsimonious,  —  this  latter  characteristic  being  the  curious 
survival  of  the  trait  of  the  ancestors  to  which  he  owed  his 
millions.  He  was  growing  even  heavier,  and  decidedly  red 
in  the  face. 

Perry  used  to  take  Ralph  to  task  for  not  saving  Ham  from 
his  iniquities,  and  Ralph  would  reply  that  Ham  was  going 
to  the  devil  anyway,  and  not  even  the  devil  himself  could 
stop  him. 

"You  can  stop  him,  and  you  know  it,"  Perry  retorted 
indignantly. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  with  him?"  asked  Ralph. 
"Convert  him  to  the  saintly  life  I  lead?" 

This  was  a  poser. 

"That's  a  fact,"  said  Perry,  "you're  no  better  than  he  is." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  ' better, '"  retorted 
Ralph,  grinning.  "I'm  wiser,  that's  all."  (We  had  been 


184  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

talking  about  the  ethics  of  business  when  Perry  had  switched 
off  to  Ham.)  "  I  believe,  at  least,  in  restraint  of  trade.  Hani 
doesn't  believe  in  restraint  of  any  kind." 

When,  therefore,  the  news  suddenly  began  to  be  circulated 
in  the  Boyne  Club  that  Ham  was  showing  a  tendency  to 
straighten  up,  surprise  and  incredulity  were  genuine.  He 
was  drinking  less,  —  much  less ;  and  it  was  said  that  he 
had  severed  certain  ties  that  need  not  again  be  definitely 
mentioned.  The  theory  of  religious  regeneration  not  being 
tenable,  it  was  naturally  supposed  that  he  had  fallen  in  love ; 
the  identity  of  the  unknown  lady  becoming  a  fruitful  sub 
ject  of  speculation  among  the  feminine  portion  of  society. 
The  announcement  of  the  marriage  of  Hambleton  Durrett 
would  be  news  of  the  first  magnitude,  to  be  absorbed  eagerly 
by  the  many  who  had  not  the  honour  of  his  acquaintance, 
—  comparable  only  to  that  of  a  devastating  flood  or  a  murder 
mystery  or  a  change  in  the  tariff. 

Being  absorbed  in  affairs  that  seemed  more  important, 
the  subject  did  not  interest  me  greatly.  But  one  cold  Sun 
day  afternoon,  as  I  made  my  way,  in  answer  to  her  invitation, 
to  see  Nancy  Willett,  I  found  myself  wondering  idly  whether 
she  might  not  be  by  way  of  making  a  shrewd  guess  as  to  the 
object  of  Hambleton's  affections.  It  was  well  known  that 
he  had  entertained  a  hopeless  infatuation  for  her ;  and  some 
were  inclined  to  attribute  his  later  lapses  to  her  lack  of  re 
sponse.  He  still  called  on  her,  and  her  lectures,  which  she 
delivered  like  a  great  aunt  with  a  recondite  knowledge  of  the 
world,  he  took  meekly.  But  even  she  had  seemed  powerless 
to  alter  his  habits.  .  .  . 

Powell  Street,  that  happy  hunting-ground  of  my  youth, 
had  changed  its  character,  become  contracted  and  unfamil 
iar,  sooty.  The  McAlerys  and  other  older  families  who  had 
not  decayed  with  the  neighbourhood  were  rapidly  deserting 
it,  moving  out  to  the  new  residence  district  known  as  "the 
Heights."  I  came  to  the  Willett  House.  That,  too,  had  an 
air  of  shabbiness,  —  of  well-tended  shabbiness,  to  be  sure ; 
the  stone  steps  had  been  scrupulously  scrubbed,  but  one  of 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  185 

them  was'cracked  clear  across,  and  the  silver  on  the  polished 
name-plate  was  wearing  off;  even  the  act  of  pulling  the 
knob  of  a  door-bell  was  becoming  obsolete,  so  used  had 
we  grown  to  pushing  porcelain  buttons  in  bright,  new 
vestibules.  As  I  waited  for  my  summons  to  be  answered 
it  struck  me  as  remarkable  that  neither  Nancy  nor  her 
father  had  been  contaminated  by  the  shabbiness  that  sur 
rounded  them. 

She  had  managed  rather  marvellously  to  redeem  one  room 
from  the  old-fashioned  severity  of  the  rest  of  the  house,  the 
library  behind  the  big  "parlour."  It  was  Nancy's  room, 
eloquent  of  her  daintiness  and  taste,  of  her  essential  mo 
dernity  and  luxuriousness ;  and  that  evening,  as  I  was  ush 
ered  into  it,  this  quality  of  luxuriousness,  of  being  able  to 
shut  out  the  disagreeable  aspects  of  life  that  surrounded  and 
threatened  her,  particularly  impressed  me.  She  had  not 
lacked  opportunities  to  escape.  I  wondered  uneasily  as  I 
waited  why  she  had  not  embraced  them.  I  strayed  about 
the  room.  A  coal  fire  burned  in  the  grate,  the  red-shaded 
lamps  gave  a  subdued  but  cheerful  light;  some  impulse 
led  me  to  cross  over  to  the  windows  and  draw  aside  the 
heavy  hangings.  Dusk  was  gathering  over  that  garden, 
bleak  and  frozen  now,  where  we  had  romped  together  as 
children.  How  queer  the  place  seemed!  How  shrivelled! 
Once  it  had  had  the  wide  range  of  a  park.  There,  still 
weathering  the  elements,  was  the  old-fashioned  latticed 
summer-house,  but  the  fruit-trees  that  I  recalled  as  clouds 
of  pink  and  white  were  gone.  ...  A  touch  of  poignancy 
was  in  these  memories.  I  dropped  the  curtain,  and  turned 
to  confront  Nancy,  who  had  entered  noiselessly. 

"Well,  Hugh,  were  you  dreaming?"  she  said. 

"Not  exactly,"  I  replied,  embarrassed.  "I  was  looking 
at  the  garden." 

"The  soot  has  ruined  it.  My  life  seems  to  be  one  con 
tinual  struggle  against  the  soot,  —  the  blacks,  as  the  Eng 
lish  call  them.  It's  a  more  expressive  term.  They  are  like 
an  army,  you  know,  overwhelming  in  their  relentless  in- 


186  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

vasion.  Well,  do  sit  down.  It  is  nice  of  you  to  come. 
You'll  have  some  tea,  won't  you  ?  " 

The  maid  had  brought  in  the  tray.  Afternoon  tea  was 
still  rather  a  new  custom  with  us,  more  of  a  ceremony  than 
a  meal ;  and  as  Nancy  handed  me  my  cup  and  the  thinnest 
of  slices  of  bread  and  butter  I  found  the  intimacy  of  the  sit 
uation  a  little  disquieting.  Her  manner  was  indeed  intimate, 
and  yet  it  had  the  odd  and  disturbing  effect  of  making  her 
seem  more  remote.  As  she  chatted  I  answered  her  perfunc 
torily,  while  all  the  time  I  was  asking  myself  why  I  had 
ceased  to  desire  her,  whether  the  old  longing  for  her  might 
not  return  —  was  not  even  now  returning  ?  I  might  indeed 
go  far  afield  to  find  a  wife  so  suited  to  me  as  Nancy.  She 
had  beauty,  distinction,  and  position.  She  was  a  woman  of 
whom  any  man  might  be  proud.  .  .  . 

"I  haven't  congratulated  you  yet,  Hugh,"  she  said  sud 
denly,  "now  that  you  are  a  partner  of  Mr.  Watling's.  I 
hear  on  all  sides  that  you  are  on  the  high  road  to  a  great 
success." 

"  Of  course  I'm  glad  to  be  in  the  firm,"  I  admitted. 

It  was  a  new  tack  for  Nancy,  rather  a  disquieting  one, 
this  discussion  of  my  affairs,  which  she  had  so  long  avoided 
or  ignored. 

"You  are  getting  what  you  have  always  wanted,  aren't 
you?" 

I  wondered  in  some  trepidation  whether  by  that  word 
"always"  she  was  making  a  deliberate  reference  to  the  past. 

"Always?"  I  repeated,  rather  fatuously. 

"Nearly  always,  ever  since  you  have  been  a  man." 

I  was  incapable  of  taking  advantage  of  the  opening,  if  it 
were  one.  She  was  bafflling. 

"A  man  likes  to  succeed  in  his  profession,  of  course,"  I 
said. 

"And  you  made  up  your  mind  to  succeed  more  deliber 
ately  than  most  men.  I  needn't  ask  you  if  you  are  satisfied, 
Hugh.  Success  seems  to  agree  with  you,  —  although  I 
imagine  you  will  never  be  satisfied." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  187 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  I  demanded. 

"I  haven't  known  you  all  your  life  for  nothing.  I  think 
I  know  you  much  better  than  you  know  yourself." 

"You  haven't  acted  as  if  you  did,"  I  exclaimed. 

She  smiled. 

"Have  you  been  interested  in  what  I  thought  about 
you?"  she  asked. 

"That  isn't  quite  fair,  Nancy,"  I  protested.  "You 
haven't  given  me  much  evidence  that  you  did  think  about 
me." 

"Have  I  received  much  encouragement  to  do  so?"  she 
inquired. 

"But  you  haven't  seemed  to  invite  —  you've  kept  me 
at  arm's  length." 

"Oh,  don't  fence!"  she  cried,  rather  sharply. 

I  had  become  agitated,  but  her  next  words  gave  me  a 
shock  that  was  momentarily  paralyzing. 

"  I  asked  you  to  come  here  to-day,  Hugh,  because  I  wished 
you  to  know  that  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  marry  Hamble- 
ton  Durrett." 

"Hambleton  Durrett!"  I  echoed  stupidly.  "Hambleton 
Durrett!" 

"Why  not?" 

"Have  you  —  have  you  accepted  him?" 

"No.    But  I  mean  to  do  so." 

"  You  —  you  love  him  ?  " 

"I  don't  see  what  right  you  have  to  ask." 

"But  'you  just  said  that  you  invited  me  here  to  talk 
frankly." 

"No,  I  don't  love  him." 

"Then  why,  in  heaven's  name,  are  you  going  to  marry 
him?" 

She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  regarding  me,  her  lips  slightly 
parted.  All  at  once  the  full  flavour  of  her,  the  superfine 
quality  was  revealed  after  years  of  blindness.  Nor  can  I 
describe  the  sudden  rebellion,  the  revulsion  that  I  experi 
enced.  Hambleton  Durrett!  It  was  an  outrage,  a  sacri- 


188  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

lege!  I  got  up,  and  put  my  hand  on  the  mantel.  Nancy 
remained  motionless,  inert,  her  head  lying  back  against  the 
chair.  Could  it  be  that  she  were  enjoying  my  discomfiture  ? 
There  is  no  need  to  confess  that  I  knew  next  to  nothing  of 
women;  had  I  been  less  excited,  I  might  have  made  the 
discovery  that  I  still  regarded  them  sentimentally.  Certain 
romantic  axioms  concerning  them,  garnered  from  Victorian 
literature,  passed  current  in  my  mind  for  wisdom ;  and  one 
of  these  declared  that  they  were  prone  to  remain  true  to  an 
early  love.  Did  Nancy  still  care  for  me?  The  query, 
coming  as  it  did  on  top  of  my  emotion,  brought  with  it  a 
strange  and  overwhelming  perplexity.  Did  I  really  care  for 
her?  The  many  years  during  which  I  had  practised  the  habit 
of  caution  began  to  exert  an  inhibiting  pressure.  Here  was 
a  situation,  an  opportunity  suddenly  thrust  upon  me  which 
might  never  return,  and  which  I  was  utterly  unprepared  to 
meet.  Would  I  be  happy  with  Nancy,  after  all?  Her 
expression  was  still  enigmatic. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  marry  him?"  she  demanded. 

"Because  he's  not  good  enough  for  you." 

"Good!"  she  exclaimed,  and  laughed.  "He  loves  me. 
He  wants  me  without  reservation  or  calculation."  There 
was  a  sting  in  this.  "  And  is  he  any  worse,"  she  asked  slowly, 
"than  many  others  who  might  be  mentioned?" 

"No,"  I  agreed.  I  did  not  intend  to  be  led  into  the  thank 
less  and  disagreeable  position  of  condemning  Hambleton 
Durrett.  "But  why  have  you  waited  all  these  years  if  you 
did  not  mean  to  marry  a  man  of  ability,  a  man  Who  has 
made  something  of  himself?" 

"A  man  like  you,  Hugh?"  she  said  gently. 

I  flushed. 

"That  isn't  quite  fair,  Nancy." 

"What  are  you  working  for?"  she  suddenly  inquired, 
straightening  up. 

"What  any  man  works  for,  I  suppose." 

"Ah,  there  you  have  hit  it,  —  what  any  man  works  for  in 
our  world.  Power,  —  personal  power.  You  want  to  be 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  189 

somebody,  —  isn't  that  it  ?  Not  the  noblest  ambition,  you'll 
have  to  admit,  —  not  the  kind  of  thing  we  used  to  dream 
about,  when  we  did  dream.  Well,  when  we  find  we  can't 
realize  our  dreams,  we  take  the  next  best  thing.  And  I 
fail  to  see  why  you  should  blame  me  for  taking  it  when  you 
yourself  have  taken  it.  Hambleton  Durrett  can  give  it 
to  me.  He'll  accept  me  on  my  own  terms,  he  won't  inter 
fere  with  me,  I  shan't  be  disillusionized,  —  and  I  shall  have 
a  position  which  I  could  not  hope  to  have  if  I  remained  un 
married,  a  very  marked  position  as  Hambleton  Durrett's 
wife.  I  am  thirty,  you  know." 

Her  frankness  appalled  me. 

"The  trouble  with  you,  Hugh,  is  that  you  still  deceive 
yourself.  You  throw  a  glamour  over  things.  You  want 
to  keep  your  cake  and  eat  it  too." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  say  that.   And  marriage  especially — " 

She  took  me  up. 

"Marriage!  What  other  career  is  open  to  a  woman? 
Unless  she  is  married,  and  married  well,  according  to  the 
money  standard  you  men  have  set  up,  she  is  nobody.  We 
can't  all  be  Florence  Nightingales,  and  I  am  unable  to  im 
agine  myself  a  Julia  Ward  Howe  or  a  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 
What  is  left?  Nothing  but  marriage.  I'm  hard  and  cyni 
cal,  you  will  say,  but  I  have  thought,  and  I'm  not  afraid,  as  I 
have  told  you,  to  look  things  in  the  face.  There  are  very  few 
women,  I  think,  who  would  not  take  the  real  thing  if  they 
had  the  chance  before  it  were  too  late,  who  wouldn't  be 
willing  to  do  their  own  cooking  in  order  to  get  it." 

She  fell  silent  suddenly.     I  began  to  pace  the  room. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  do  this,  Nancy!"  I  begged. 

But  she  continued  to  stare  into  the  fire,  as  though  she 
had  not  heard  me. 

"If  you  had  made  up  your  mind  to  do  it,  why  did  you 
tell  me?"  I  asked. 

"Sentiment,  I  suppose.  I  am  paying  a  tribute  to  what  I 
once  was,  to  what  you  once  were,"  she  said.  "A  —  a  sort 
of  good-bye  to  sentiment." 


190  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"  Nancy ! "  I  said  hoarsely. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  Hugh.  Surely  you  can't  misjudge  me  so!"  she 
answered  reproachfully.  "Do  you  think  I  should  have  sent 
for  you  if  I  had  meant  —  that?  " 

"No,  no,  I  didn't  think  so.  But  why  not?  You  —  you 
cared  once,  and  you  tell  me  plainly  you  don't  love  him.  It 
was  all  a  terrible  mistake.  We  were  meant  for  each  other." 

"I  did  love  you  then,"  she  said.  "You  never  knew  how 
much.  And  there  is  nothing  I  wouldn't  give  to  bring  it 
all  back  again.  But  I  can't.  It's  gone.  You're  gone,  and 
I'm  gone.  I  mean  what  we  were.  Oh,  why  did  you 
change  ? " 

"It  was  you  who  changed,"  I  declared,  bewildered. 

"Couldn't  you  see  —  can't  you  see  now  what  you  did? 
But  perhaps  you  couldn't  help  it.  Perhaps  it  was  just 
you,  after  all." 

"What  I  did?" 

"Why  couldn't  you  have  held  fast  to  your  faith?  If 
you  had,  you  would  have  known  what  it  was  I  adored  in 
you.  Oh,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now,  it  was  just  that 
faith,  Hugh,  that  faith  you  had  in  life,  that  faith  you  had  in 
me.  You  weren't  cynical  and  calculating,  like  Ralph 
Hambleton,  you  had  imagination.  I  —  I  dreamed,  too. 
And  do  you  remember  the  tune  when  you  made  the  boat, 
and  we  went  to  Logan's  Pond,  and  you  sank  in  her?" 

"And  you  stayed,"  I  went  on,  "when  all  the  others  ran 
away  ?  You  ran  down  the  hill  like  a  whirlwind." 

She  laughed. 

"And  then  you  came  here  one  day,  to  a  party,  and  said 
you  were  going  to  Harvard,  and  quarrelled  with  me." 

"Why  did  you  doubt  mef"  I  asked  agitatedly.  "Why 
didn't  you  let  me  see  that  you  still  cared?" 

"Because  that  wasn't  you,  Hugh,  that  wasn't  your  real 
self.  Do  you  suppose  it  mattered  to  me  whether  you  went 
to  Harvard  with  the  others  ?  Oh,  I  was  foolish  too,  I  know. 
I  shouldn't  have  said  what  I  did.  But  what  is  the  use  of 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  191 

regrets?"  she  exclaimed.  "We've  both  run  after  the  prac 
tical  gods,  and  the  others  have  hidden  their  faces  from  us. 
It  may  be  that  we  are  not  to  blame,  either  of  us,  that  the 
practical  gods  are  too  strong.  We've  learned  to  love  and 
worship  them,  and  now  we  can't  do  without  them." 

"We  can  try,  Nancy,"  I  pleaded. 

"No,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice,  "that's  the  difference 
between  you  and  me.  I  know  myself  better  than  you  know 
yourself,  and  I  know  you  better."  She  smiled  again.  "  Un 
less  we  could  have  it  all  back  again,  I  shouldn't  want  any  of 
it.  You  do  not  love  me — " 

I  started  once  more  to  protest. 

"No,  no,  don't  say  it !"  she  cried.  "You  may  think  you 
do,  just  this  moment,  but  it's  only  because  —  you've  been 
moved.  And  what  you  believe  you  want  isn't  me,  it's  what 
I  was.  But  I'm  not  that  any  more,  —  I'm  simply  recalling 
that,  don't  you  see  ?  And  even  then  you  wouldn't  wish  me, 
now,  as  I  was.  That  sounds  involved,  but  you  must  under 
stand.  You  want  a  woman  who  will  be  wrapped  up  in  your 
career,  Hugh,  and  yet  who  will  not  share  it,  —  who  will  devote 
herself  body  and  soul  to  what  you  have  become.  A  woman 
whom  you  can  shape.  And  you  won't  really  love  her,  but 
only  just  so  much  of  her  as  may  become  the  incarnation  of 
you.  Well,  I'm  not  that  kind  of  woman.  I  might  have 
been,  had  you  been  different.  I'm  not  at  all  sure.  Cer 
tainly  I'm  not  that  kind  now,  even  though  I  know  in  my  heart 
that  the  sort  of  career  you  have  made  for  yourself,  and  that 
I  intend  to  make  for  myself  is  all  dross.  But  now  I  can't 
do  without  it." 

"And  yet  you  are  going  to  marry  Hambleton  Durrett!" 
I  said. 

She  understood  me,  although  I  regretted  my  words  at 
once. 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  marry  him."  There  was  a  shade  of 
bitterness,  of  defiance  in  her  voice.  "Surely  you  are  not 
offering  me  the  —  the  other  thing,  now.  Oh,  Hughl" 

"  I  am  willing  to  abandon  it  all,  Nancy." 


192  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"No,"  she  said,  "you're  not,  and  I'm  not.  What  you 
can't  see  and  won't  see  is  that  it  has  become  part  of  you. 
Oh,  you  are  successful,  you  will  be  more  and  more  successful. 
And  you  think  I  should  be  somebody,  as  your  wife,  Hugh,  — 
more  perhaps,  eventually,  than  I  shall  be  as  Hambleton's. 
>  But  I  should  be  nobody,  too.  I  couldn't  stand  it  now,  my 
dear.  You  must  realize  that  as  soon  as  you  have  time  to 
think  it  over.  We  shall  be  friends." 

The  sudden  gentleness  in  her  voice  pierced  me  through 
and  through.  She  held  out  her  hand.  Something  in  her 
grasp  spoke  of  a  resolution  which  could  not  be  shaken. 

"And  besides,"  she  added  sadly,  "I  don't  love  you  any 
more,  Hugh.  I'm  mourning  for  something  that's  gone.  I 
wanted  to  have  just  this  one  talk  with  you.  But  we  shan't 
mention  it  again,  —  we'll  close  the  book."  .  .  . 

At  that  I  fled  out  of  the  house,  and  at  first  the  thought  of 
her  as  another  man's  wife,  as  Hambleton  Durrett's  wife, 
was  seemingly  not  to  be  borne.  It  was  incredible !  "We'll 
close  the  book."  I  found  myself  repeating  the  phrase ;  and 
it  seemed  then  as  though  something  within  me  I  had  believed 
dead  —  something  that  formerly  had  been  all  of  me  —  had 
revived  again  to  throb  with  pain. 


It  is  not  surprising  that  the  acuteness  of  my  suffering  was 
of  short  duration,  though  I  remember  certain  sharp  twinges 
when  the  announcement  of  the  engagement  burst  on  the  city. 
There  was  much  controversy  over  the  question  as  to  whether 
or  not  Ham  Durrett's  reform  would  be  permanent;  but 
most  people  were  willing  to  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt ; 
it  was  tune  he  settled  down  and  took  the  position  in  the  com 
munity  that  was  to  be  expected  of  one  of  his  name ;  and  as 
for  Nancy,  it  was  generally  agreed  that  she  had  done  well 
for  herself.  She  was  not  made  for  poverty  —  and  who  so 
well  as  she  was  fitted  for  the  social  leadership  of  our  commu 
nity? 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  193 

They  were  married  in  Trinity  Church  in  the  month  of 
May,  and  I  was  one  of  Ham's  attendants.  Ralph  was 
"best  man."  For  the  last  time  the  old  Willett  mansion  in 
Powell  Street  wore  the  gala  air  of  former  days ;  carpets  were 
spread  over  the  sidewalk,  and  red  and  white  awnings ;  rooms 
were  filled  with  flowers  and  flung  open  to  hundreds  of  guests. ; 
I  found  the  wedding  something  of  an  ordeal.  I  do  not  like 
to  dwell  upon  it  —  especially  upon  that  moment  when  I 
came  to  congratulate  Nancy  as  she  stood  beside  Ham  at 
the  end  of  the  long  parlour.  She  seemed  to  have  no  regrets. 
I  don't  know  what  I  expected  of  her  —  certainly  not  tears 
and  tragedy.  She  seemed  taller  than  ever,  and  very  beauti 
ful  in  her  veil  and  white  satin  gown  and  the  diamonds  Ham 
had  given  her;  very  much  mistress  of  herself,  quite  a  con 
trast  to  Ham,  who  made  no  secret  of  his  elation.  She  smiled 
when  I  wished  her  happiness. 

"We'll  be  home  in  the  autumn,  Hugh,  and  expect  to  see 
a  great  deal  of  you,"  she  said. 

As  I  paused  in  a  corner  of  the  room  my  eye  fell  upon 
Nancy's  father.  McAlery  Willett's  elation  seemed  even 
greater  than  Ham's.  With  a  gardenia  in  his  frock-coat 
and  a  glass  of  champagne  in  his  hand  he  went  from  group  to 
group ;  and  his  familiar  laughter,  which  once  had  seemed  so 
full  of  merriment  and  fun,  gave  me  to-day  a  somewhat  scandal 
ized  feeling.  I  heard  Ralph's  voice,  and  turned  to  discover 
him  standing  beside  me,  his  long  legs  thrust  slightly  apart, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  overlooking  the  scene  with  typical, 
semi-contemptuous  amusement. 

"This  lets  old  McAlery  out,  anyway,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  demanded. 

"One  or  two  little  notes  of  his  will  be  cancelled,  sooner 
or  later  —  that's  all." 

For  a  moment  I  was  unable  to  speak. 

"  And  do  you  think  that  she  —  that  Nancy  found  out  —  ?  " 
I  stammered. 

"Well,  I'd  be  willing  to  take  that  end  of  the  bet,"  he 
replied.  "Why  the  deuce  should  she  marry  Ham?  You 


194  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

ought  to  know  her  well  enough  to  understand  how  she'd 
feel  if  she  discovered  some  of  McAlery's  financial  coups? 
Of  course  it's  not  a  thing  I  talk  about,  you  understand. 
Are  you  going  to  the  Club?" 

"No,  I'm  going  home,"  I  said.    I  was  aware  of  his  some 
what  compassionate  smile  as  I  left  him.  ,  ,  . 


XII 


ONE  November  day  nearly  two  years  after  my  admission 
as  junior  member  of  the  firm  of  Watling,  Fowndes  and 
Ripon  seven  gentlemen  met  at  luncheon  in  the  Boyne  Club ; 
Mr.  Barbour,  President  of  the  Railroad,  Mr.  Scherer,  of  the 
Boyne  Iron  Works  and  other  corporations,  Mr.  Leonard 
Dickinson,  of  the  Corn  National  Bank,  Mr.  Halsey,  a  prom 
inent  banker  from  the  other  great  city  of  the  state,  Mr. 
Grunewald,  Chairman  of  the  Republican  State  Committee, 
and  Mr.  Frederick  Grierson,  who  had  become  a  very  impor 
tant  man  in  our  community.  At  four  o'clock  they  emerged 
from  the  club :  citizens  in  Boyne  Street  who  saw  them  chat 
ting  amicably  on  the  steps  little  suspected  that  in  the  last 
three  hours  these  gentlemen  had  chosen  and  practically  elected 
the  man  who  was  to  succeed  Mr.  Wade  as  United  States 
Senator  in  Washington.  Those  were  the  days  in  which  great 
affairs  were  simply  and  efficiently  handled.  No  democratic 
nonsense  about  leaving  the  choice  to  an  electorate  that  did 
not  know  what  it  wanted. 

The  man  chosen  to  fill  this  high  position  was  Theodore 
Watling.  He  said  he  would  think  about  the  matter. 

In  the  nation  at  large,  through  the  defection  of  certain 
Northern  states  neither  so  conservative  nor  fortunate  as 
ours,  the  Democratic  party  was  in  power,  which  naturally 
implies  financial  depression.  There  was  no  question  about 
our  ability  to  send  a  Republican  Senator ;  the  choice  in  the 
Boyne  Club  was  final;  but  before  the  legislature  should 
ratify  it,  a  year  or  so  hence,  it  were  just  as  well  that  the 
people  of  the  state  should  be  convinced  that  they  desired 
Mr.  Watling  more  than  any  other  man ;  and  surely  enough, 

195 


196  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

in  a  little  while  such  a  conviction  sprang  up  spontaneously. 
In  offices  and  restaurants  and  hotels,  men  began  to  suggest 
to  each  other  what  a  fine  thing  it  would  be  if  Theodore 
Watling  might  be  persuaded  to  accept  the  toga ;  at  the  banks, 
when  customers  called  to  renew  their  notes  and  tight  money 
was  discussed  and  Democrats  excoriated,  it  was  generally 
agreed  that  the  obvious  thing  to  do  was  to  get  a  safe  man 
in  the  Senate.  From  the  very  first,  Watling  sentiment 
stirred  like  spring  sap  after  a  hard  winter.  The  country 
newspapers,  watered  by  providential  rains,  began  to  put 
forth  tender  little  editorial  shoots,  which  Mr.  Judah  B. 
Tallant  presently  collected  and  presented  in  a  charming 
bouquet  in  the  Morning  Era.  "The  Voice  of  the  State 
Press;"  thus  was  the  column  headed;  and  the  remarks 
of  the  Hon.  Fitch  Truesdale,  of  the  St.  Helen's  Messenger, 
were  given  a  special  prominence.  Mr.  Truesdale  was  the 
first,  in  his  section,  to  be  inspired  by  the  happy  thought 
that  the  one  man  preeminently  fitted  to  represent  the  state 
in  the  present  crisis,  when  her  great  industries  had  been 
crippled  by  Democratic  folly,  was  Mr.  Theodore  Watling. 
The  Rossiter  Banner,  the  Elkington  Star,  the  Belfast  Recorder, 
and  I  know  not  how  many  others  simultaneously  began  to 
sing  Mr.  Watling's  praises. 

"Not  since  the  troublous  times  of  the  Civil  War,"  declared 
the  Morning  Era,  "had  the  demand  for  any  man  been  so 
unanimous."  As  a  proof  of  it,  there  were  the  country  news 
papers,  "which  reflected  the  sober  opinion  of  the  firesides 
of  the  common  people." 

There  are  certain  industrious  gentlemen  to  whom  little 
credit  is  given,  and  who,  unlike  the  average  citizen  who 
reserves  his  enthusiasm  for  election  tune,  are  patriotic  enough 
to  labour  for  their  country's  good  all  the  year  round.  When 
in  town,  it  was  their  habit  to  pay  a  friendly  call  on  the 
Counsel  for  the  Railroad,  Mr.  Miller  Gorse,  in  the  Corn 
Bank  Building.  He  was  never  too  busy  to  converse  with 
them ;  or,  it  might  better  be  said,  to  listen  to  them  converse. 
Let  some  legally  and  politically  ambitious  young  man  ok- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  197 

serve  Mr.  Gorse's  method.  Did  he  inquire  what  the  party 
worker  thought  of  Mr.  Watling  for  the  Senate?  Not  at 
all !  But  before  the  party  worker  left  he  was  telling  Mr. 
Gorse  that  public  sentiment  demanded  Mr.  Watling.  After 
leaving  Mr.  Gorse  they  wended  their  way  to  the  Durrett 
Building  and  handed  their  cards  over  the  rail  of  the  offices 
of  Watling,  Fowndes  and  Ripon.  Mr.  Watling  shook  hands 
with  scores  of  them,  and  they  departed,  well  satisfied  with 
the  flavour  of  his  cigars  and  intoxicated  by  his  personality. 
He  had  a  marvellous  way  of  cutting  short  an  interview  with 
out  giving  offence.  Some  of  them  he  turned  over  to  Mr. 
Paret,  whom  he  particularly  desired  they  should  know. 
Thus  Mr.  Paret  acquired  many  valuable  additions  to  his 
acquaintance,  cultivated  a  memory  for  names  and  faces 
that  was  to  stand  him  in  good  stead;  and  kept,  besides, 
an  indexed  note-book  into  which  he  put  various  bits  of  in 
teresting  information  concerning  each.  Though  not  imme 
diately  lucrative,  it  was  all,  no  doubt,  part  of  a  lawyer's 
education. 

During  the  summer  and  the  following  winter  Colonel 
Paul  Varney  came  often  to  town  and  spent  much  of  his 
time  in  Mr.  Paret's  office  smoking  Mr.  Watling's  cigars  and 
discussing  the  coming  campaign,  in  which  he  took  a  whole- 
souled  interest. 

"Say,  Hugh,  this  is  goin'  slick!"  he  would  exclaim,  his 
eyes  glittering  like  round  buttons  of  jet.  "I  never  saw  a 
campaign  where  they  fell  in  the  way  they're  doing  now.  If 
it  was  anybody  else  but  Theodore  Watling,  it  would  scare 
me.  You  ought  to  have  been  in  Jim  Broadhurst's  cam 
paign,"  he  added,  referring  to  the  junior  senator,  "they 
wouldn't  wood  up  at  all,  they  was  just  listless.  But  Gorse 
and  Barbour  and  the  rest  wanted  him,  and  we  had  to  put 
him  over.  I  reckon  he  is  useful  down  there  in  Washington,  — 
but  say,  do  you  know  what  he  always  reminded  me  of  ?  One 
of  those  mud-turtles  I  used  to  play  with  as  a  boy  up  in 
Columbia  County,  —  shuts  up  tight  soon  as  he  sees  you 
coming.  Now  Theodore  Watling  ain't  like  that,  any  way 


198  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

of  speaking.  We  can  get  up  some  enthusiasm  for  a  man 
of  his  sort.  He's  liberal  and  big.  He's  made  his  pile,  and 
he  don't  begrudge  some  of  it  to  the  fellows  who  do  the  work. 
Mark  my  words,  when  you  see  a  man  who  wants  a  big  office 
cheap,  look  out  for  him." 

This,  and  much  more  wisdom  I  imbibed  while  assenting 
' J  to  my  chief's  greatness.  For  Mr.  Varney  was  right,  —  one 
'  could  feel  enthusiasm  for  Theodore  Watling ;  and  my  growing 
intimacy  with  him,  the  sense  that  I  was  having  a  part  in 
his  career,  a  share  in  his  success,  became  for  the  moment 
the  passion  of  my  life.  As  the  campaign  progressed  I  gave 
more  and  more  time  to  it,  and  made  frequent  trips  of  a 
confidential  nature  to  the  different  counties  of  the  state. 
The  whole  of  my  being  was  energized.  The  national  fever 
had  thoroughly  pervaded  my  blood  —  the  national  fever 
to  win.  Prosperity  —  writ  large  —  demanded  it,  and 
Theodore  Watling  personified,  incarnated  the  cause.  I  had 
neither  the  time  nor  the  desire  to  philosophize  on  this  national 
fever,  which  animated  all  my  associates :  animated,  I  might 
say,  the  nation,  which  was  beginning  to  get  into  a  fever  about 
games.  If  I  remember  rightly,  it  was  about  this  time  that 
golf  was  introduced,  tennis  had  become  a  commonplace, 
professional  base-ball  was  in  full  swing ;  Ham  Durrett  had 
even  organized  a  local  polo  team.  .  .  .  The  man  who 
failed  to  win  something  tangible  in  sport  or  law  or  business 
or  politics  was  counted  out.  Such  was  the  spirit  of  America 
in  the  closing  years  of  the  nineteenth  century. 


And  yet,  when  one  has  said  this,  one  has  failed  to  express 
the  national  Geist  in  all  its  subtlety.  In  brief,  the  great 
American  sport  was  not  so  much  to  win  the  game  as  to  beat 
it ;  the  evasion  of  rules  challenged  our  ingenuity ;  and  having 
won,  we  set  about  devising  methods  whereby  it  would  be 
less  and  less  possible  for  us  winners  to  lose  in  the  future. 
No  better  illustration  of  this  tendency  could  be  given  than 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  199 

the  development  which  had  recently  taken  place  in  the  field 
of  our  city  politics,  hitherto  the  battle-ground  of  Irish 
politicians  who  had  fought  one  another  for  supremacy. 
Individualism  had  been  rampant,  competition  the  custom; 
you  bought  an  alderman,  or  a  boss  who  owned  four  or  five 
aldermen,  and  then  you  never  could  be  sure  you  were  to 
get  what  you  wanted,  or  that  the  aldermen  and  the  bosses 
would  "stay  bought."  But  now  a  genius  had  appeared, 
an  American  genius  who  had  arisen  swiftly  and  almost 
silently,  who  appealed  to  the  imagination,  and  whose  name 
was  often  mentioned  in  a  whisper,  —  the  Hon.  Judd  Jason, 
sometimes  known  as  the  Spider,  who  organized  the  City 
Hall  and  capitalized  it;  an  ultimate  and  logical  effect  —  if 
one  had  considered  it  —  of  the  Manchester  school  of  eco 
nomics.  Enlightened  self-interest,  stripped  of  sentiment, 
ends  on  Judd  Jasons.  He  ran  the  city  even  as  Mr.  Sherrill 
ran  his  department  store;  you  paid  your  price.  It  was 
very  convenient.  Being  a  genius,  Mr.  Jason  did  not  wholly 
break  with  tradition,  but  retained  those  elements  of  the  old 
muddled  system  that  had  their  value,  chartering  steam 
boats  for  outings  on  the  river,  giving  colossal  picnics  in 
Lowry  Park.  The  poor  and  the  wanderer  and  the  criminal 
(of  the  male  sex  at  least)  were  cared  for.  But  he  was  not 
loved,  as  the  rough-and-tumble  Irishmen  had  been  loved; 
he  did  not  make  himself  common;  he  was  surrounded  by 
an  aura  of  mystery  which  I  confess  had  not  failed  of 
effect  on  me.  Once,  and  only  once  during  my  legal  appren 
ticeship,  he  had  been  pointed  out  to  me  on  the  street, 
where  he  rarely  ventured.  His  appearance  was  not  im- 1 
pressive.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Jason  could  not,  of  course,  prevent  Mr.  Watling's 
election,  even  did  he  so  desire,  but  he  did  command  the  al 
legiance  of  several  city  candidates  —  both  democratic  and 
republican  —  for  the  state  legislature,  who  had  as  yet  failed 
to  announce  their  preferences  for  United  States  Senator. 
It  was  important  that  Mr.  Watling's  vote  should  be  large, 
as  indicative  of  a  public  reaction  and  repudiation  of  Demo- 


200  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

cratic  national  folly.  This  matter  among  others  was  the 
subject  of  discussion  one  July  morning  when  the  Republican 
State  Chairman  was  in  the  city;  Mr.  Grunewald  expressed 
anxiety  over  Mr.  Jason's  continued  silence.  It  was  expe 
dient  that  somebody  should  "see"  the  boss. 

"Why  not  Paret?"  suggested  Leonard  Dickinson.  Mr. 
Watling  was  not  present  at  this  conference.  "Paret  seems 
to  be  running  Watling's  campaign,  anyway." 

It  was  settled  that  I  should  be  the  emissary.  With  lively 
sensations  of  curiosity  and  excitement,  tempered  by  a  certain 
anxiety  as  to  my  ability  to  match  wits  with  the  Spider,  I 
made  my  way  to  his  "lair"  over  Monahan's  saloon,  situated 
in  a  district  that  was  anything  but  respectable.  The  saloon, 
on  the  ground  floor,  had  two  apartments ;  the  bar-room  proper 
where  Mike  Monahan,  chamberlain  of  the  establishment,  was 
wont  to  stand,  red  faced  and  smiling,  to  greet  the  courtiers, 
big  and  little,  the  party  workers,  the  district  leaders,  the 
hangers-on  ready  to  be  hired,  the  city  officials,  the  police 
judges,  —  yes,  and  the  dignified  members  of  state  courts 
whose  elections  depended  on  Mr.  Jason's  favour:  even 
Judge  Bering,  whose  acquaintance  I  had  made  the  day  I 
had  come,  as  a  law  student,  to  Mr.  Watling's  office,  unbent 
from  time  to  time  sufficiently  to  call  there  for  a  small  glass 
of  rye  and  water,  and  to  relate,  with  his  owl-like  gravity, 
an  anecdote  to  the  "boys."  The  saloon  represented  De 
mocracy,  so  dear  to  the  American  public.  Here  all  were 
welcome,  even  the  light-fingered  gentlemen  who  enjoyed 
the  privilege  of  police  protection;  and  who  sometimes, 
through  fortuitous  circumstances,  were  haled  before  the 
very  magistrates  with  whom  they  had  rubbed  elbows  on  the 
polished  rail.  Behind  the  bar-room,  and  separated  from  it 
by  swinging  doors  only  the  elite  ventured  to  thrust  apart, 
was  an  audience  chamber  whither  Mr.  Jason  occasionally 
descended.  Anecdote  and  political  reminiscence  gave  place 
here  to  matters  of  high  policy. 

I  had  several  times  come  to  the  saloon  in  the  days  of  my 
apprenticeship  in  search  of  some  judge  or  official,  and  once 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  201 

I  had  run  down  here  the  city  auditor  himself.  Mike  Mona- 
han,  whose  affair  it  was  to  know  everyone,  recognized  me. 
It  was  part  of  his  business,  also,  to  understand  that  I  was 
now  a  member  of  the  firm  of  Watling,  Fowndes  and  Ripon. 

"Good  morning  to  you,  Mr.  Paret,"  he  said  suavely.  We 
held  a  colloquy  in  undertones  over  the  bar,  eyed  by  the  two 
or  three  customers  who  were  present.  Mr.  Monahan  dis 
appeared,  but  presently  returned  to  whisper:  "Sure,  he'll 
see  you,"  to  lead  the  way  through  the  swinging  doors  and  up 
a  dark  stairway.  I  came  suddenly  on  a  room  in  the  greatest 
disorder,  its  tables  and  chairs  piled  high  with  newspapers 
and  letters,  its  windows  streaked  with  soot.  From  an  open 
door  on  its  farther  side  issued  a  voice. 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Paret?    Come  in  here." 

It  was  little  less  than  a  command. 

"Heard  of  you,  Mr.  Paret.  Glad  to  know  you.  Sit 
down,  won't  you?" 

The  inner  room  was  almost  dark.  I  made  out  a  bed  in 
the  corner,  and  propped  up  in  the  bed  a  man ;  but  for  the 
moment  I  was  most  aware  of  a  pair  of  eyes  that  flared  up 
when  the  man  spoke,  and  died  down  again  when  he  became 
silent.  They  reminded  me  of  those  insects  which  in  my 
childhood  days  we  called  "lightning  bugs."  Mr.  Jason 
gave  me  a  hand  like  a  woman's.  I  expressed  my  pleasure 
at  meeting  him,  and  took  a  chair  beside  the  bed. 

"  I  believe  you're  a  partner  of  Theodore  Watling's  now  — 
aren't  you?  Smart  man,  Watling." 

"He'll  make  a  good  senator,"  I  replied,  accepting  the 
opening. 

"You  think  he'll  get  elected  —  do  you?"  Mr.  Jason  in 
quired. 
u  I  laughed. 

"Well,  there  isn't  much  doubt  about  that,  I  imagine." 

"  Don't  know  —  don't  know.  Seen  some  dead-sure  things 
go  wrong  in  my  time." 

"What's  going  to  defeat  him?"  I  asked  pleasantly. 

"/  don't  say  anything,"  Mr.  Jason  replied.      "But  I've 


202  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

known  funny  things  to  happen — never  does  to  be  dead 
sure." 

"Oh,  well,  we're  as  sure  as  it's  humanly  possible  to  be," 
I  declared.  The  eyes  continued  to  fascinate  me,  they  had 
a  peculiar,  disquieting  effect.  Now  they  died  down,  and  it 
was  as  if  the  man's  very  presence  had  gone  out,  as  though 
I  had  been  left  alone;  and  I  found  it  exceedingly  difficult, 
under  the  circumstances,  to  continue  to  address  him.  Sud 
denly  he  flared  up  again. 

"Watling  send  you  over  here?"  he  demanded. 

"No.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he's  out  of  town.  Some  of 
Mr.  Watling's  friends,  Mr.  Grunewald  and  Mr.  Dickinson, 
Mr.  Gorse  and  others,  suggested  that  I  see  you,  Mr.  Jason." 

There  came  a  grunt  from  the  bed. 

"Mr.  Watling  has  always  valued  your  friendship  and  sup 
port,"  I  said. 

"What  makes  him  think  he  ain't  going  to  get  it?" 

"He  hasn't  a  doubt  of  it,"  I  went  on  diplomatically. 
"  But  we  felt  —  and  I  felt  personally,  that  we  ought  to  — 
be  in  touch  with  you,  to  work  along  with  you,  to  keep  in 
formed  how  things  are  going  in  the  city." 

"What  things?" 

"Well  —  there  are  one  or  two  representatives,  friends  of 
yours,  who  haven't  come  out  for  Mr.  Watling.  We  aren't 
worrying,  we  know  you'll  do  the  right  thing,  but  we  feel  that 
it  would  have  a  good  deal  of  influence  in  some  other  parts 
of  the  state  if  they  declared  themselves.  And  then  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  this  isn't  a  year  when  any  of  us 
can  afford  to  recognize  too  closely  party  lines ;  the  Demo 
cratic  administration  has  brought  on  a  panic,  the  business 
men  in  that  party  are  down  on  it,  and  it  ought  to  be  rebuked . 
And  we  feel,  too,  that  some  of  the  city's  Democrats  ought 
to  be  loyal  to  Mr.  Watling,  —  not  that  we  expect  them  to 
vote  for  him  in  caucus,  but  when  it  comes  to  the  joint  bal 
lot—" 

"Who?"  demanded  Mr.  Jason. 

"Senator  Dowse  and  Jim  Maher,  for  instance,"  I  sug 
gested. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  203 

"Jim  voted  for  Bill  709  all  right  —  didn't  he?"  said  Mr. 
Jason  abruptly. 

"That's  just  it,"  I  put  in  boldly.  "We'd  like  to  induce 
him  to  come  hi  with  us  this  time.  But  we  feel  that  —  the 
inducement  would  better  come  through  you." 

I  thought  Mr.  Jason  smiled.  By  this  time  I  had  grown 
accustomed  to  the  darkness,  the  face  and  figure  of  the  man 
in  the  bed  had  become  discernible.  Power,  I  remember 
thinking,  chooses  odd  houses  for  itself.  Here  was  no  over 
bearing,  full-blooded  ward  ruffian  brimming  with  vitality, 
but  a  thin,  sallow  little  man  in  a  cotton  night-shirt,  with  iron- 
grey  hair  and  a  wiry  moustache;  he  might  have  been  an 
overworked  clerk  behind  a  drygoods  counter;  and  yet 
somehow,  now  that  I  had  talked  to  him,  I  realized  that 
he  never  could  have  been.  Those  extraordinary  eyes  of  his, 
when  they  were  functioning,  marked  his  individuality  as 
unique.  It  were  almost  too  dramatic  to  say  that  he  required 
darkness  to  make  his  effect,  but  so  it  seemed.  I  should 
never  forget  him.  He  had  in  truth  been  well  named  the 
Spider. 

"Of  course  we  haven't  tried  to  get  in  touch  with  them. 
We  are  leaving  them  to  you,"  I  added. 

"Paret,"  he  said  suddenly,  "I  don't  care  a  damn  about 
Grunewald  —  never  did.  I'd  turn  him  down  for  ten  cents. 
But  you  can  tell  Theodore  Watling  for  me,  and  Dickinson, 
that  I  guess  the  'inducement'  can  be  fixed." 

I  felt  a  certain  relief  that  the  interview  had  come  to  an 
end,  that  the  moment  had  arrived  for  amenities.  To  my 
surprise,  Mr.  Jason  anticipated  me. 

"I've  been  interested  in  you,  Mr.  Paret,"  he  observed. 
"  Know  who  you  are,  of  course,  knew  you  were  in  Watling's 
office.  Then  some  of  the  boys  spoke  about  you  when  you 
were  down  at  the  legislature  on  that  Ribblevale  matter. 
Guess  you  had  more  to  do  with  that  bill  than  came  out  in 
the  newspapers  —  eh?" 

I  was  taken  off  my  guard. 

"Oh,  that's  talk,"  I  said. 


204  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"All  right,  it's  talk,  then?  But  I  guess  you  and  I  will 
have  some  more  talk  after  a  while,  —  after  Theodore  Wat- 
ling  gets  to  be  United  States  Senator.  Give  him  my  re 
gards,  and  —  and  come  in  when  I  can  do  anything  for  you, 
Mr.  Paret." 

Thanking  him,  I  groped  my  way  downstairs  and  let  myself 
out  by  a  side  door  Monahan  had  shown  me  into  an  alleyway, 
thus  avoiding  the  saloon.  As  I  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
office,  seeking  the  shade  of  the  awnings,  the  figure  in  the 
darkened  room  took  on  a  sinister  aspect  that  troubled 
me.  , 


The  autumn  arrived,  the  campaign  was  on  with  a  whoop, 
and  I  had  my  first  taste  of  "stump"  politics.  The  acrid 
smell  of  red  fire  brings  it  back  to  me.  It  was  a  medley  of 
railroad  travel,  of  committees  provided  with  badges  and 
cigars,  of  open  carriages  slowly  drawn  between  lines  of 
bewildered  citizens,  of  Lincoln  clubs  and  other  clubs  marching 
in  serried  ranks,  uniformed  and  helmeted,  stalwarts  carrying 
torches  and  banners.  And  then  there  were  the  draughty 
opera-houses  with  the  sylvan  scenery  pushed  back  and  plush 
chairs  and  sofas  pushed  forward;  with  an  ominous  table, 
a  pitcher  of  water  on  it  and  a  glass,  near  the  footlights. 
The  houses  were  packed  with  more  bewildered  citizens.  What 
a  wonderful  study  of  mob-psychology  it  would  have  offered ! 
Men  who  had  not  thought  of  the  grand  old  Republican 
party  for  two  years,  and  who  had  not  cared  much  about 
it  when  they  had  entered  the  doors,  after  an  hour  or  so  went 
mad  with  fervour.  The  Hon.  Joseph  Mecklin,  ex-Speaker 
of  the  House,  with  whom  I  travelled  on  occasions,  had  a 
speech  referring  to  the  martyred  President,  ending  with 
an  appeal  to  the  revolutionary  fathers  who  followed  Wash 
ington  with  bleeding  feet.  The  Hon.  Joseph  possessed  that 
most  valuable  of  political  gifts,  presence;  and  when  with 
quivering  voice  he  finished  his  peroration,  citizens  wept 
with  him.  What  it  all  had  to  do  with  the  tariff  was 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  205 

not  quite  clear.  Yet  nobody  seemed  to  miss  the  connec 
tion. 

We  were  all  of  us  most  concerned,  of  course,  about  the 
working-man  and  his  dinner  pail,  —  whom  the  Democrats 
had  wantonly  thrown  out  of  employment  for  the  sake  of  a 
doctrinaire  theory.  They  had  put  him  in  competition  with 
the  serf  of  Europe.  Such  was  the  subject-matter  of  my 
own  modest  addresses  in  this,  my  maiden  campaign.  I  had 
the  sense  to  see  myself  in  perspective ;  to  recognize  that  not 
for  me,  a  dignified  and  substantial  lawyer  of  affairs,  were 
the  rhetorical  flights  of  the  Hon.  Joseph  Mecklin.  I  spoke 
with  a  certain  restraint.  Not  too  dryly,  I  hope.  But  I 
sought  to  curb  my  sentiments,  my  indignation,  at  the  manner 
in  which  the  working-man  had  been  treated;  to  appeal  to 
the  common  sense  rather  than  to  the  passions  of  my  au 
diences.  Here  were  the  statistics !  (drawn,  by  the  way,  from 
the  Republican  Campaign  book).  Unscrupulous  dema 
gogues  —  Democratic,  of  course  —  had  sought  to  twist  and 
evade  them.  Let  this  terrible  record  of  lack  of  employment 
and  misery  be  compared  with  the  prosperity  under  Republi 
can  rule. 

"  One  of  the  most  effective  speakers  in  this  campaign  for  the 
restoration  of  Prosperity,"  said  the  Rossiter  Banner,  "is 
Mr.  Hugh  Paret,  of  the  firm  of  Watling,  Fowndes  and 
Ripon.  Mr.  Paret's  speech  at  the  Opera-House  last  even 
ing  made  a  most  favourable  impression.  Mr.  Paret  deals 
with  facts.  And  his  thoughtful  analysis  of  the  situation 
into  which  the  Democratic  party  has  brought  this  country 
should  convince  any  sane-minded  voter  that  the  time  has 
'  come  for  a  change." 

I  began  to  keep  a  scrap-book,  though  I  locked  it  up  in 
the  drawer  of  my  desk.  In  it  are  to  be  found  many  clip 
pings  of  a  similarly  gratifying  tenor.  .  .  . 

Mecklin  and  I  were  well  contrasted.  In  this  way,  in 
cidentally,  I  made  many  valuable  acquaintances  among 
the  "solid"  men  of  the  state,  the  local  capitalists  and 
manufacturers,  with  whom  my  manner  of  dealing  with 


206  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

public  questions  was  in  particular  favour.  These  were 
practical  men;  they  rather  patronized  the  Hon.  Joseph, 
thus  estimating,  to  a  nicety,  a  man's  value;  or  solidity, 
or  specific  gravity,  it  might  better  be  said,  since  our 
universe  was  one  of  checks  and  balances.  The  Hon. 
Joseph  and  his  like,  skyrocketing  through  the  air,  were 
somehow  necessary  in  the  scheme  of  things,  but  not  to  be 
taken  too  seriously.  Me  they  did  take  seriously,  these 
provincial  lords,  inviting  me  to  their  houses  and  opening 
their  hearts.  Thus,  when  we  came  to  Elkington,  Mr. 
Me'cklin  reposed  in  the  Commercial  House,  on  the  noisy 
main  street.  Fortunately  for  him,  the  clanging  of  trolley 
cars  never  interfered  with  his  slumbers.  I  slept  in  a  wide 
chamber  in  the  mansion  of  Mr.  Ezra  Hutchins.  There 
were  many  Hutchinses  in  Elkington,  —  brothers  and  cousins 
and  uncles  and  great-uncles,  —  and  all  were  connected  with 
the  woollen  mills.  But  there  is  always  one  supreme  Hutch- 
ins,  and  Ezra  was  he :  tall,  self-contained,  elderly,  but  well 
preserved  through  frugal  living,  essentially  American  and 
typical  of  his  class,  when  he  entered  the  lobby  of  the  Commer 
cial  House  that  afternoon  the  babel  of  political  discussion 
was  suddenly  hushed;  politicians,  travelling  salesmen  and 
the  members  of  the  local  committee  made  a  lane  for  him ; 
to  him,  the  Hon.  Joseph  and  I  were  introduced.  Mr. 
Hutchins  knew  what  he  wanted.  He  was  cordial  to  Mr. 
Mecklin,  but  he  took  me.  We  entered  a  most  respectable 
surrey  with  tassels,  driven  by  a  raw-boned  coachman  in  a 
black  overcoat,  drawn  by  two  sleek  horses. 

"How  is  this  thing  going,  Paret?"  he  asked. 

I  gave  him  Mr.  Grunewald's  estimated  majority. 

"What  do  you  think  ?  "  he  demanded,  a  shrewd,  humorous 
look  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"Well,  I  think  we'll  carry  the  state.  I  haven't  had 
Grunewald's  experience  in  estimating." 

Ezra  Hutchins  smiled  appreciatively. 

"What  does  Watling  think?" 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  be  worrying  much." 

"Ever  been  in  Elkington  before?" 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  207 

I  said  I  hadn't. 

"Well,  a  drive  will  do  you  good." 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  on  a  mild  October  afternoon. 
The  little  town,  of  fifteen  thousand  inhabitants  or  so,  had 
a  wonderful  setting  in  the  widening  valley  of  the  Scopanong, 
whose  swiftly  running  waters  furnished  the  power  for  the 
mills.  We  drove  to  these  through  a  gateway  over  which 
the  words  "No  Admittance"  were  conspicuously  painted, 
past  long  brick  buildings  that  bordered  the  canals;  and 
in  the  windows  I  caught  sight  of  drab  figures  of  men  and 
women  bending  over  the  machines.  Half  of  the  buildings,  as 
Mr.  Hutchins  pointed  out,  were  closed,  —  mute  witnesses 
of  tariff-tinkering  madness.  Even  more  eloquent  of  demo 
cratic  folly  was  that  part  of  the  town  through  which  we 
presently  passed,  streets  lined  with  rows  of  dreary  houses 
where  the  workers  lived.  Children  were  playing  on  the 
sidewalks,  but  theirs  seemed  a  listless  play;  listless,  too, 
were  the  men  and  women  who  sat  on  the  steps,  —  listless, 
and  somewhat  sullen,  as  they  watched  us  passing.  Ezra 
Hutchins  seemed  to  read  my  thought. 

"  Since  the  unions  got  in  here  I've  had  nothing  but  trouble," 
he  said.  "I've  tried  to  do  my  duty  by  my  people,  God 
knows.  But  they  won't  see  which  side  their  bread's  buttered 
on.  They  oppose  me  at  every  step,  they  vote  against  their 
own  interests.  Some  years  ago  they  put  up  a  job  on  us, 
and  sent  a  scatter-brained  radical  to  the  legislature." 

"Krebs." 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"Slightly.  He  was  in  my  class  at  Harvard.  ...  Is  he 
still  here?"  I  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Oh,  yes.  But  he  hasn't  gone  to  the  legislature  this  time, 
we've  seen  to  that.  His  father  was  a  respectable  old  Ger 
man  who  had  a  little  shop  and  made  eye-glasses.  The  son 
is  an  example  of  too  much  education.  He's  a  notoriety 
seeker.  Oh,  he's  clever,  in  a  way.  He's  given  us  a  good 
deal  of  trouble,  too,  in  the  courts  with  damage  cases."  .  .  . 

We  came  to  a  brighter,  more  spacious,  well-to-do  portion 


208  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

of  the  town,  where  the  residences  faced  the  river.  In  a  little 
while  the  waters  widened  into  a  lake,  which  was  surrounded 
by  a  park,  a  gift  to  the  city  of  the  Hutchins  family.  Facing 
it,  on  one  side,  was  the  Hutchins  Library;  on  the  other, 
across  a  wide  street,  where  the  maples  were  turning,  were 
the  Hutchinses'  residences  of  various  dates  of  construction,  — 
from  that  of  the  younger  George,  who  had  lately  married 
a  wife,  and  built  in  bright  yellow  brick,  to  the  old-fashioned 
mansion  of  Ezra  himself.  This,  he  told  me,  had  been  good 
enough  for  his  father,  and  was  good  enough  for  him.  The 
picture  of  it  comes  back  to  me,  now,  with  singular  attrac 
tiveness.  It  was  of  brick,  and  I  suppose  a  modification  of 
the  Georgian ;  the  kind  of  house  one  still  sees  in  out-of-the- 
way  corners  of  London,  with  a  sort  of  Dickensy  flavour; 
high  and  square  and  uncompromising,  with  small-paned 
windows,  with  a  flat  roof  surrounded  by  a  low  balustrade, 
and  many  substantial  chimneys.  The  third  storey  was  lower 
than  the  others,  separated  from  them  by  a  distinct  line. 
On  one  side  was  a  wide  porch.  Yellow  and  red  leaves,  the 
day's  fall,  scattered  the  well-kept  lawn.  Standing  in  the 
doorway  of  the  house  was  a  girl  in  white,  and  as  we  de 
scended  from  the  surrey  she  came  down  the  walk  to  meet  us. 
She  was  young,  about  twenty.  Her  hair  was  the  colour  of 
the  russet  maple  leaves. 

"This  is  Mr.  Paret,  Maude."  Mr.  Hutchins  looked  at 
his  watch  as  does  a  man  accustomed  to  live  by  it.  "If 
you'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Paret,  I  have  something  important 
to  attend  to.  Perhaps  Mr.  Paret  would  like  to  look  about 
the  grounds?"  He  addressed  his  daughter. 

I  said  I  should  be  delighted,  though  I  had  no  idea  what 
grounds  were  meant.  As  I  followed  Maude  around  the 
house  she  explained  that  all  the  Hutchins  connection  had 
a  common  back  yard,  as  she  expressed  it.  In  reality,  there 
were  about  two  blocks  of  the  property,  extending  behind 
all  the  houses.  There  were  great  trees  with  swings,  groves, 
orchards  where  the  late  apples  glistened  between  the  leaves, 
an  old-fashioned  flower  garden  loath  to  relinquish  its  bloom- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  209 

ing.  In  the  distance  the  shadowed  wjestern  ridge  hung  like 
a  curtain  of  deep  blue  velvet  against  the  sunset. 

"What  a  wonderful  spot !"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  it  is  nice,"  she  agreed,  "we  were  all  brought  up  here 
—  I  mean  my  cousins  and  myself.  There  are  dozens  of  us. 
And  dozens  left,"  she  added,  as  the  shouts  and  laughter  of 
children  broke  the  stillness. 

A  boy  came  running  around  the  corner  of  the  path.  He 
struck  out  at  Maude.  With  a  remarkably  swift  movement 
she  retaliated. 

"  Ouch ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"You  got  him  that  time,"  I  laughed,  and,  being  detected, 
she  suddenly  blushed.  It  was  this  act  that  drew  my  atten 
tion  to  her,  that  defined  her  as  an  individual.  Before  that 
I  had  regarded  her  merely  as  a  shy  and  provincial  girl.  Now 
she  was  brimming  with  an  unsuspected  vitality.  A  certain 
interest  was  aroused,  although  her  shyness  towards  me  was 
not  altered.  I  found  it  rather  a  flattering  shyness. 

"It's  Hugh,"  she  explained,  "he's  always  trying  to  be 
funny.  Speak  to  Mr.  Paret,  Hugh." 

"Why,  that's  my  name,  too,"  I  said. 

"Is  it?" 

"She  knocked  my  hat  off  a  little  while  ago,"  said  Hugh. 
"I  was  only  getting  square." 

"Well,  you  didn't  get  square,  did  you?"  I  asked. 

"Are  you  going  to  speak  in  the  town  hall  to-night?"  the 
boy  demanded.  I  admitted  it.  He  went  off,  pausing  once 
to  stare  back  at  me.  .  .  .  Maude  and  I  walked  on. 

"It  must  be  exciting  to  speak  before  a  large  audience," 
she  said.  "If  I  were  a  man,  I  think  I  should  like  to  be  in 
politics." 

"  I  cannot  imagine  you  in  politics,"  I  answered. 

She  laughed. 

"I  said,  if  I  were  a  man." 

"Are  you  going  to  the  meeting?" 

"Oh,  yes.     Father  promised  to  take  me.     He  has  a  box." 

I  thought  it  would  be  .pleasant  to  have  her  there. 


210  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  what  I  have  to  say  rather  dry," 
I  said. 

"A  woman  can't  expect  to  understand  everything,"  she 
answered  quickly. 

This  remark  struck  me  favourably.  I  glanced  at  her 
sideways.  She  was  not  a  beauty,  but  she  was  distinctly 
well-formed  and  strong.  Her  face  was  oval,  her  features 
not  quite  regular,  —  giving  them  a  certain  charm ;  her 
colour  was  fresh,  her  eyes  blue,  the  lighter  blue  one  sees  on 
Chinese  ware:  not  a  poetic  comparison,  but  so  I  thought 
of  them.  She  was  apparently  not  sophisticated,  as  were 
most  of  the  young  women  at  home  whom  I  knew  intimately 
(as  were  the  Watling  twins,  for  example,  with  one  of  whom, 
Frances,  I  had  had,  by  the  way,  rather  a  lively  flirtation 
the  spring  before) ;  she  seemed  refreshingly  original,  im 
pressionable  and  plastic.  .  .  . 

We  walked  slowly  back  to  the  house,  and  in  the  hallway  I 
met  Mrs.  Hutchins,  a  bustling,  housewifely  lady,  inclined  to 
stoutness,  whose  creased  and  kindly  face  bore  witness  to 
long  acquiescence  in  the  discipline  of  matrimony,  to  the 
contentment  that  results  from  an  essentially  circumscribed 
and  comfortable  life.  She  was,  I  learned  later,  the  second 
Mrs.  Hutchins,  and  Maude  their  only  child.  The  children 
of  the  first  marriage,  all  girls,  had  married  and  scattered. 

Supper  was  a  decorous  but  heterogeneous  meal  of  the  old- 
fashioned  sort  that  gives  one  the  choice  between  tea  and 
cocoa.  It  was  something  of  an  occasion,  I  suspected.  The 
minister  was  there,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Doddridge,  who  would 
have  made,  in  appearance  at  least,  a  perfect  Puritan  divine 
in  a  steeple  hat  and  a  tippet.  Only  —  he  was  no  longer 
the  leader  of  the  community ;  and  even  in  his  grace  he  had 
the  air  of  deferring  to  the  man  who  provided  the  bounties  of 
which  we  were  about  to  partake  rather  than  to  the  Almighty. 
Young  George  was  there,  Mr.  Hutchins's  nephew,  who  was 
daily  becoming  more  and  more  of  a  factor  in  the  management 
of  the  mills,  and  had  built  the  house  of  yellow  brick  that  stood 
out  so  incongruously  among  the  older  Hutchinses'  mansions, 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  211 

and  marked  a  transition.  I  thought  him  rather  a  yellow- 
brick  gentleman  himself  for  his  assumption  of  cosmopolitan 
manners.  His  wife  was  a  pretty,  discontented  little  woman 
who  plainly  deplored  her  environment,  longed  for  larger 
fields  of  conquest :  George,  she  said,  must  remain  where  he 
was,  for  the  present  at  least,  —  Uncle  Ezra  depended  on 
him;  but  Elkington  was  a  prosy  place,  and  Mrs.  George 
gave  the  impression  that  she  did  not  belong  here.  They 
went  to  the  city  on  occasions;  both  cities.  And  when  she 
told  me  we  had  a  common  acquaintance  in  Mrs.  Hambleton 
Durrett  —  whom  she  thought  so  lovely !  —  I  knew  that  she 
had  taken  Nancy  as  an  ideal :  Nancy,  the  social  leader  of 
what  was  to  Mrs.  George  a  metropolis. 

Presently  the  talk  became  general  among  the  men,  the 
subject  being  the  campaign,  and  I  the  authority,  bombarded 
with  questions  I  strove  to  answer  judicially.  What  was  the 
situation  in  this  county  and  in  that  ?  the  national  situation  ? 
George  indulged  in  rather  a  vigorous  arraignment  of  the 
demagogues,  national  and  state,  who  were  hurting  business 
in  order  to  obtain  political  power.  The  Reverend  Mr. 
Doddridge  assented,  deploring  the  poverty  that  the  local 
people  had  brought  on  themselves  by  heeding  the  advice 
of  agitators;  and  Mrs.  Hutchins,  who  spent  much  of  her 
tune  in  charity  work,  agreed  with  the  minister  when  he  de 
clared  that  the  trouble  was  largely  due  to  a  decline  in  Chris 
tian  belief.  Ezra  Hutchins,  too,  nodded  at  this. 

"Take  that  man  Krebs,  for  example,"  the  minister  went 
on,  stimulated  by  this  encouragement,  "he's  an  atheist, 
pure  and  simple."  A  sympathetic  shudder  went  around 
the  table  at  the  word.  George  alone  smiled.  "Old  Krebs 
was  a  free-thinker ;  I  used  to  get  my  glasses  of  him.  He 
was  at  least  a  conscientious  man,  a  good  workman,  which 
is  more  than  can  be  said  for  the  son.  Young  Krebs  has 
talent,  and  if  only  he  had  devoted  himself  to  the  honest 
practice  of  law,  instead  of  stirring  up  dissatisfaction  among 
these  people,  he  would  be  a  successful  man  to-day." 

Mr.  Hutchins  explained  that  I  was  at  college  with  Krebs. 


212  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"These  people  must  like  him,"  I  said,  "or  they  wouldn't 
have  sent  him  to  the  legislature." 

"Well,  a  good  many  of  them  do  like  him,"  the  minister 
admitted.  "  You  see,  he  actually  lives  among  them.  They 
believe  his  socialistic  doctrines  because  he's  a  friend  of  theirs." 

"He  won't  represent  this  town  again,  that's  sure,"  ex 
claimed  George.  "You  didn't  see  in  the  papers  that  he  was 
nominated,  —  did  you,  Paret?" 

"But  if  the  mill  people  wanted  him,  George,  how  could  it 
be  prevented?"  his  wife  demanded. 

George  winked  at  me. 

"There  are  more  ways  of  skinning  a  cat  than  one,"  he  said 
cryptically. 

"Well,  it's  tune  to  go  to  the  meeting,  I  guess,"  remarked 
Ezra,  rising.  Once  more  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

We  were  packed  into  several  family  carriages  and  started 
off.  In  front  of  the  hall  the  inevitable  red  fire  was  burning, 
its  quivering  light  reflected  on  the  faces  of  the  crowd  that 
blocked  the  street.  They  stood  silent,  strangely  apathetic 
as  we  pushed  through  them  to  the  curb,  and  the  red  fire 
went  out  suddenly  as  we  descended.  My  temporary  sense 
of  depression,  however,  deserted  me  as  we  entered  the  hall, 
which  was  well  lighted  and  filled  with  people,  who  clapped 
when  the  Hon.  Joseph  and  I,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Dod- 
dridge  and  the  Hon.  Henry  Clay  Mellish  from  Pottstown, 
with  the  local  chairman,  walked  out  on  the  stage.  A  glance 
over  the  audience  sufficed  to  ascertain  that  that  portion  of 
the  population  whose  dinner  pails  we  longed  to  fill  was 
evidently  not  present  in  large  numbers.  But  the  farmers  had 
driven  in  from  the  hills,  while  the  merchants  and  store 
keepers  of  Elkington  had  turned  out  loyally. 

The  chairman,  in  introducing  me,  proclaimed  me  as  a 
coming  man,  and  declared  that  I  had  already  achieved,  in 
the  campaign,  considerable  notoriety.  As  I  spoke,  I  was 
pleasantly  aware  of  Maude  Hutchins  leaning  forward  a 
little  across  the  rail  of  the  right-hand  stage  box  —  for  the 
town  hall  was  half  opera-house ;  her  attitude  was  one  of 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  213 

semi-absorbed  admiration ;  and  the  thought  that  I  had  made 
an  impression  on  her  stimulated  me.  I  spoke  with  more 
aplomb.  Somewhat  to  my  surprise,  I  found  myself  making 
occasional,  unexpected  witticisms  that  drew  laughter  and 
applause.  Suddenly,  from  the  back  of  the  hall,  a  voice  called 
out:  — 

"How  about  House  Bill  709?" 

There  was  a  silence,  then  a  stirring  and  craning  of  necks. 
It  was  my  first  experience  of  heckling,  and  for  the  moment 
I  was  taken  aback.  I  thought  of  Krebs.  He  had,  indeed, 
been  in  my  mind  since  I  had  risen  to  my  feet,  and  I  had 
scanned  the  faces  before  me  in  search  of  his.  But  it  was 
not  his  voice. 

"Well,  what  about  Bill  709?"  I  demanded. 

"  You  ought  to  know  something  about  it,  I  guess,"  the 
voice  responded. 

"Put  him  out!"  came  from  various  portions  of  the  hall. 

Inwardly,  I  was  shaken.  Not  —  in  orthodox  language  — 
from  any  "conviction  of  sin."  Yet  it  was  my  first  intima 
tion  that  my  part  in  the  legislation  referred  to  was  known 
to  any  save  a  select  few.  I  blamed  Krebs,  and  a  hot  anger 
arose  within  me  against  him.  After  all,  what  could  they 
prove  ? 

"No,  don't  put  him  out,"  I  said.  "Let  him  come  up  here 
to  the  platform.  I'll  yield  to  him.  And  I'm  entirely  willing 
to  discuss  with  him  and  defend  any  measures  passed  in  the 
legislature  of  this  state  by  a  Republican  majority.  Per 
haps,"  I  added,  "the  gentleman  has  a  copy  of  the  law  in 
his  pocket,  that  I  may  know  what  he  is  talking  about,  and 
answer  him  intelligently." 

At  this  there  was  wild  applause.  I  had  the  audience  with 
me.  The  offender  remained  silent  and  presently  I  finished 
my  speech.  After  that  Mr.  Mecklin  made  them  cheer  and 
weep,  and  Mr.  Hellish  made  them  laugh.  The  meeting  had 
been  highly  successful. 

"You  polished  him  off,  all  right,"  said  George  Hutchins, 
as  he  took  my  hand. 


214  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Who  was  he?" 

"Oh,  one  of  the  local  soreheads.  Krebs  put  him  up  to  it, 
of  course." 

"Was  Krebs  here?"  I  asked. 

"  Sitting  in  the  corner  of  the  balcony.  That  meeting  must 
have  made  him  feel  sick."  George  bent  forward  and  whis 
pered  in  my  ear:  "I  thought  Bill  709  was  Watling's  idea." 

"  Oh,  I  happened  to  be  in  the  Potts  House  about  that  tune," 
I  explained. 

George,  of  whom  it  may  be  gathered  that  he  was  not 
wholly  unsophisticated,  grinned  at  me  appreciatively. 

"  Say,  Paret,"  he  replied,  putting  his  hand  through  my  arm, 
"there's  a  little  legal  business  in  prospect  down  here  that 
will  require  some  handling,  and  I  wish  you'd  come  down 
after  the  campaign  and  talk  it  over  with  us.  I've  just 
about  made  up  my  mind  that  you're  the  man  to  tackle  it." 

"All  right,  I'll  come,"  I  said. 

"And  stay  with  me,"  said  George.  .  .  . 

We  went  to  his  yellow-brick  house  for  refreshments,  — 
salad  and  ice-cream  and  (in  the  face  of  the  Hutchins  tradi 
tions)  champagne.  Others  had  been  invited  in,  some  twenty 
persons.  .  .  .  Once  in  a  while,  when  I  looked  up,  I  met 
Maude's  eyes  across  the  room.  I  walked  home  with  her, 
slowly,  the  length  of  the  Hutchinses'  block.  Floating  over 
the  lake  was  a  waning  October  moon  that  cast  through 
the  thinning  maples  a  lace-work  of  shadows  at  our  feet;  I 
had  the  feeling  of  well-being  that  comes  to  heroes,  and  the 
presence  of  Maude  Hutchins  was  an  incense,  a  vestal  in 
cense  far  from  unpleasing.  Yet  she  had  reservations  which 
appealed  to  me.  Hers  was  not  a  gushing  provincialism, 
like  that  of  Mrs.  George. 

"I  liked  your  speech  so  much,  Mr.  Paret,"  she  told  me. 
"  It  seemed  so  sensible  and  —  controlled,  compared  to  the 
others.  I  have  never  thought  a  great  deal  about  these 
things,  of  course,  and  I  never  understood  before  why  taking 
away  the  tariff  caused  so  much  misery.  You  made  that 
quite  plain." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  215 

"If  so,  I'm  glad,"  I  said. 

She  was  silent  a  moment. 

"The  working  people  here  have  had  a  hard  time  during 
the  last  year,"  she  went  on.  "Some  of  the  mills  had  to  be 
shut  down,  you  know.  It  has  troubled  me.  Indeed,  it  has 
troubled  all  of  us.  And  what  has  made  it  more  difficult, 
more  painful  is  that  many  of  them  seem  actually  to  dislike  us. 
They  think  it's  father's  fault,  and  that  he  could  run  all  the 
mills  if  he  wanted  to.  I've  been  around  a  little  with  mother 
and  sometimes  the  women  wouldn't  accept  any  help  from  us ; 
they  said  they'd  rather  starve  than  take  charity,  that  they 
had  the  right  to  work.  But  father  couldn't  run  the  mills  at 
a  loss  —  could  he  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  replied. 

"And  then  there's  Mr.  Krebs,  of  whom  we  were  speaking 
at  supper,  and  who  puts  all  kinds  of  queer  notions  into  their 
heads.  Father  says  he's  an  anarchist.  I  heard  father  say 
at  supper  that  he  was  at  Harvard  with  you.  Did  you  like 
him?" 

"Well,"  I  answered  hesitatingly,  "I  didn't  know  him  very 
well." 

"Of  course  not,"  she  put  in.  "I  suppose  you  couldn't 
have." 

"He's  got  these  notions,"  I  explained,  "that  are  mischiev 
ous  and  crazy  —  but  I  don't  dislike  him." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that ! "  she  answered  quietly. 
"I  like  him,  too  —  he  seems  so  kind,  so  understanding." 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"  Well,  —  "  she  hesitated  —  "  I  feel  as  though  I  do.  I've 
only  met  him  once,  and  that  was  by  accident.  It  was  the 
day  the  big  strike  began,  last  spring,  and  I  had  been  shop 
ping,  and  started  for  the  mills  to  get  father  to  walk  home 
with  me,  as  I  used  to  do.  I  saw  the  crowds  blocking  the 
streets  around  the  canal.  At  first  I  paid  no  attention  to 
them,  but  after  a  while  I  began  to  be  a  little  uneasy,  — 
there  were  places  where  I  had  to  squeeze  through,  and  I 
couldn't  help  seeing  that  something  was  wrong,  and  that 


216  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

the  people  were  angry.  Men  and  women  were  talking  in 
loud  voices.  One  woman  stared  at  me,  and  called  my  name, 
and  said  something  that  frightened  me  terribly.  I  went 
into  a  doorway  —  and  then  I  saw  Mr.  Krebs.  I  didn't 
know  who  he  was.  He  just  said,  'You'd  better  come  with 
me,  Miss  Hutchins,'  and  I  went  with  him.  I  thought 
afterwards  that  it  was  a  very  courageous  thing  for  him  to  do, 
because  'he  was  so  popular  with  the  mill  people,  and  they  had 
such  a  feeling  against  us.  Yet  they  didn't  seem  to  resent  it, 
and  made  way  for  us,  and  Mr.  Krebs  spoke  to  many  of  them 
as  we  passed.  After  we  got  to  State  Street,  I  asked  him 
his  name,  and  when  he  told  me  I  was  speechless.  He  took  off 
his  hat  and  went  away.  He  had  such  a  nice  face  —  not 
at  all  ugly  when  you  look  at  it  twice  —  and  kind  eyes,  that 
I  just  couldn't  believe  him  to  be  as  bad  as  father  and  George 
think  he  is.  Of  course  he  is  mistaken,"  she  added  hastily, 
"but  I  am  sure  he  is  sincere,  and  honestly  thinks  he  can  help 
those  people  by  telling  them  what  he  does." 

The  question  shot  at  me  during  the  meeting  rankled  still ; 
I  wanted  to  believe  that  Krebs  had  inspired  it,  and  her 
championship  of  him  gave  me  a  twinge  of  jealousy,  —  the 
slightest  twinge,  to  be  sure,  yet  a  perceptible  one.  At  the 
same  time,  the  unaccountable  liking  I  had  for  the  man 
stirred  to  life.  The  act  she  described  had  been  so  character 
istic. 

"He's  one  of  the  born  rebels  against  society,"  I  said 
glibly.  "Yet  I  do  think  he's  sincere." 

Maude  was  grave.  "  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  he  wasn't," 
she  replied.  After  I  had  bidden  her  good  night  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  and  gone  to  my  room,  I  reflected  how  absurd 
it  was  to  be  jealous  of  Krebs.  What  was  Maude  Hutchins 
to  me  ?  And  even  if  she  had  been  something  to  me,  she  never 
could  be  anything  to  Krebs.  All  the  forces  of  our  civilization 
stood  between  the  two;  nor  was  she  of  a  nature  to  take 
plunges  of  that  sort.  The  next  day,  as  I  lay  back  in  my 
seat  in  the  parlour-car  and  gazed  at  the  autumn  landscape, 
I  indulged  in  a  luxurious  contemplation  of  the  picture  she 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  217 

had  made  as  she  stood  on  the  lawn  under  the  trees  in  the 
early  morning  light,  when  my  carriage  had  driven  away ;  and 
I  had  turned,  to  perceive  that  her  eyes  had  followed  me.  I 
was  not  in  love  with  her,  of  course.  I  did  not  wish  to  re 
turn  at  once  to  Elkington,  but  I  dwelt  with  a  pleasant  antici 
pation  upon  my  visit,  when  the  campaign  should  be  over, 
with  George. 


XIII 

\ 

< 

1 

"THE  good  old  days  of  the  Watling  campaign,"  as  Colonel 
Paul  Varney  is  wont  to  call  them,  are  gone  forever.  And 
the  Colonel  himself,  who  stuck  to  his  gods,  has  been  through 
the  burning,  fiery  furnace  of  Investigation,  and  has  come  out 
unscathed  and  unrepentant.  The  flames  of  investigation, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  passed  over  his  head  in  their  vain  attempt 
to  reach  the  "man  higher  up,"  whose  feet  they  licked;  but 
him  they  did  not  devour,  either.  A  veteran  in  retirement,  the 
Colonel  is  living  under  his  vine  and  fig  tree  on  the  lake  at 
Rossiter;  the  vine  bears  Catawba  grapes,  of  which  he  is 
passionately  fond ;  the  fig  tree,  the  Bartlett  pears  he  gives 
to  his  friends.  He  has  saved  something  from  the  spoils  of 
war,  but  other  veterans  I  could  mention  are  not  so  fortunate. 
The  old  warriors  have  retired,  and  many  are  dead ;  the  good 
old  methods  are  becoming  obsolete.  We  never  bothered 
about  those  mischievous  things  called  primaries.  Our  county 
committees,  our  state  committees  chose  the  candidates  for 
the  conventions,  which  turned  around  and  chose  the  commit 
tees.  Both  the  committees  and  the  conventions  —  under , 
advice  —  chose  the  candidates.  Why,  pray,  should  the  i 
people  complain,  when  they  had  everything  done  for  them  ? 
The  benevolent  parties,  both  Democratic  and  Republican, 
even  undertook  the  expense  of  printing  the  ballots !  And 
generous  ballots  they  were  (twenty  inches  long  and  five  wide !), 
distributed  before  election,  in  order  that  the  voters  might 
have  the  opportunity  of  studying  and  preparing  them :  in 
order  that  Democrats  of  delicate  feelings  might  take  the  pains 
to  scratch  out  all  the  Democratic  candidates,  and  write  in 

218 


A  FAR   COUNTRY  219 

the  names  of  the  Republican  candidates.  Patriotism  could 
go  no  farther  than  this.  .  .  . 

I  spent  the  week  before  election  in  the  city,  where  I  had 
the  opportunity  of  observing  what  may  be  called  the  chari 
table  side  of  politics.  For  a  whole  month,  or  more,  the 
burden  of  existence  had  been  lifted  from  the  shoulders  of 
the  homeless.  No  church  or  organization  looked  out  for 
these  frowsy,  blear-eyed  and  ragged  wanderers  who  had 
failed  to  find  a  place  in  the  scale  of  efficiency.  For  a  whole 
month,  I  say,  Mr.  Judd  Jason  and  his  lieutenants  made  them 
their  especial  care;  supported  them  in  lodging-houses,  in 
duced  the  night  clerks  to  give  them  attention;  took  the 
greatest  pains  to  ensure  them  the  birth-right  which,  as 
American  citizens,  was  theirs,  —  that  of  voting.  They 
were  not  only  given  homes  for  a  period,  but  they  were  reg 
istered  ;  and  in  the  abundance  of  good  feeling  that  reigned 
during  this  time  of  cheer,  even  the  foreigners  were  registered  1 
On  election  day  they  were  driven,  like  visiting  notables,  in 
carryalls  and  carriages  to  the  polls !  Some  of  them,  as  though 
in  compensation  for  ills  endured  between  elections,  voted 
not  once,  but  many  times;  exercising  judicial  functions 
for  which  they  should  be  given  credit.  For  instance,  they 
were  convinced  that  the  Hon.  W.  W.  Trulease  had  made  a 
good  governor ;  and  they  were  Watling  enthusiasts,  —  in 
tent  on  sending  men  to  the  legislature  who  would  vote  for 
him  for  senator ;  yet  there  were  cases  in  which,  for  the  minor 
offices,  the  democrat  was  the  better  man ! ! 

It  was  a  memorable  day.  In  spite  of  Mr.  Lawler's  Pilot, 
which  was  as  a  voice  crying  in  the  wilderness,  citizens  who 
had  wives  and  homes  and  responsibilities,  business  men  and 
clerks  went  to  the  voting  booths  and  recorded  their  choice 
for  Trulease,  Watling  and  Prosperity :  and  working-men  fol 
lowed  suit.  Victory  was  in  the  air.  Even  the  policemen 
wore  happy  smiles,  and  in  some  instances  the  election  officers 
themselves  in  absent-minded  exuberance  thrust  bunches 
of  ballots  into  the  boxes ! 

In  response  to  an  insistent  demand  from  his  fellow-citizens 


220  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Mr.  Watling,  the  Saturday  evening  before,  had  made  a 
speech  in  the  Auditorium,  decked  with  bunting  and  filled 
with  people.  For  once  the  Morning  Era  did  not  exaggerate 
when  it  declared  that  the  ovation  had  lasted  fully  ten  minutes. 
"A  remarkable  proof"  it  went  on  to  say,  "of  the  esteem  and 
confidence  in  which  our  fellow-citizen  is  held  by  those  who 
know  him  best,  his  neighbours  in  the  city  where  he  has  given 
so  many  instances  of  his  public  spirit,  where  he  has  achieved 
such  distinction  in  the  practice  of  the  law.  He  holds  the 
sound  American  conviction  that  the  office  should  seek  the 
man.  His  address  is  printed  in  another  column,  and  we 
believe  it  will  appeal  to  the  intelligence  and  sober  judgment 
of  the  state.  It  is  replete  with  modesty  and  wisdom." 

Mr.  Watling  was  introduced  by  Mr.  Bering  of  the  State 
Supreme  Court  (a  candidate  for  reelection),  who  spoke  with 
deliberation,  with  owl-like  impressiveness.  He  didn't  be 
lieve  in  judges  meddling  in  politics,  but  this  was  an  unusual 
occasion.  (Loud  applause.)  Most  unusual.  He  had  come 
here  as  a  man,  as  an  American,  to  pay  his  tribute  to  another 
man,  a  long-time  friend,  whom  he  thought  to  stand  some 
what  aside  and  above  mere  party  strife,  to  represent  values 
not  merely  political.  ...  So  accommodating  arid  flexible 
is  the  human  mind,  so  "practical"  may  it  become  through 
dealing  with  men  and  affairs,  that  in  listening  to  Judge 
Bering  I  was  able  to  ignore  the  little  anomalies  such  a  sit 
uation  might  have  suggested  to  the  theorist,  to  the  mere 
student  of  the  institutions  of  democracy.  The  friendly 
glasses  of  rye  and  water  Mr.  Bering  had  taken  in  Monahan's 
saloon,  the  cases  he  had  "arranged"  for  the  firm  of  Watling, 
Fowndes  and  Ripon  were  forgotten.  Forgotten,  too,  — 
when  Theodore  Watling  stood  up  and  men  began  to  throw 
their  hats  in  the  air,  —  were  the  cavilling  charges  of  Mr. 
Lawler's  Pilot  that,  far  from  the  office  seeking  the  man,  our 
candidate  had  spent  over  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  of 
his  own  money,  to  say  nothing  of  the  contributions  of  Mr. 
Scherer,  Mr.  Dickinson  and  the  Railroad !  If  I  had  been 
troubled  with  any  weak,  ethical  doubts,  Mr.  Watling 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  221 

have  dispelled  them ;  he  had  red  blood  in  his  veins,  a  creed 
in  which  he  believed,  a  rare  power  of  expressing  himself 
in  plain,  everyday  language  that  was  often  colloquial,  but 
never  —  as  the  saying  goes — "cheap."  The  dinner-pail 
predicament  was  real  to  him.  He  would  present  a  policy 
of  our  opponents  charmingly,  even  persuasively,  and  then 
add,  after  a  moment's  pause :  "  There  is  only  one  objection 
to  this,  my  friends  —  that  it  doesn't  work."  It  was  all  in 
the  way  he  said  it,  of  course.  The  audience  would  go  wild 
with  approval,  and  shouts  of  "that's  right"  could  be  heard 
here  and  there.  Then  he  proceeded  to  show  why  it  didn't 
work.  He  had  the  faculty  of  bringing  his  lessons  home,  the 
imagination  to  put  himself  into  the  daily  life  of  those  who 
listened  to  him,  —  the  life  of  the  storekeeper,  the  clerk,  of 
the  labourer  and  of  the  housewife.  The  effect  of  this  can 
scarcely  be  overestimated.  For  the  American  hugs  the  de 
lusion  that  there  are  no  class  distinctions,  even  though  his 
whole  existence  may  be  an  effort  to  rise  out  of  one  class  into 
another.  "Your  wife,"  he  told  them  once,  "needs  a  dress. 
Let  us  admit  that  the  material  for  the  dress  is  a  little  cheaper 
than  it  was  four  years  ago,  but  when  she  comes  to  look  into 
the  family  stocking  —  "  (Laughter.)  "  I  needn't  go  on.  If 
we  could  have  things  cheaper,  and  more  money  to  buy  them 
with,  we  should  all  be  happy,  and  the  Republican  party 
could  retire  from  business." 
He  did  not  once  refer  to  the  United  States  Senatorship. 


It  was  appropriate,  perhaps,  that  many  of  us  dined  on 
the  evening  of  election  day  at  the  Boyne  Club.  There  was 
early  evidence  of  a  Republican  land-slide.  And  when,  at 
ten  o'clock,  it  was  announced  that  Mr.  Trulease  was  re- 
elected  by  a  majority  which  exceeded  Mr.  Grunewald's 
most  hopeful  estimate,  that  the  legislature  was  "  safe,"  that 
Theodore  Watling  would  be  the  next  United  States  Senator, 
a  scene  of  jubilation  ensued  within  those  hallowed  walls 


222  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

which  was  unprecedented.  Chairs  were  pushed  back,  rugs 
taken  up,  Gene  Hollister  played  the  piano  and  a  Virginia 
reel  started;  in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm  Leonard  Dickinson 
ordered  champagne  for  every  member  present.  The  country 
was  returning  to  its  senses.  Theodore  Watling  had  pre 
ferred,  on  this  eventful  night,  to  remain  quietly  at  home. 
But  presently  carriages  were  ordered,  and  a  "delegation" 
of  enthusiastic  friends  departed  to  congratulate  him ;  Dick 
inson,  of  course,  Grierson,  Fowndes,  Ogilvy,  and  Grunewald. 
We  found  Judah  B.  Tallant  there,  —  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  it  was  a  busy  night  for  the  Era ;  and  Adolf  Scherer  him 
self,  in  expansive  mood,  was  filling  the  largest  of  the  library 
chairs.  Mr.  Watling  was  the  least  excited  of  them  all; 
remarkably  calm,  I  thought,  for  a  man  on  the  verge  of  realiz 
ing  his  life's  high  ambition.  He  had  some  old  brandy,  and 
a  box  of  cigars  he  had  been  saving  for  an  occasion.  He  man 
aged  to  convey  to  everyone  his  appreciation  of  the  value 
of  their  cooperation.  .  .  . 

It  was  midnight  before  Mr.  Scherer  arose  to  take  his 
departure.  He  seized  Mr.  Watling's  hand,  warmly,  in  both 
of  his  own. 

"I  have  never,"  he  said,  with  a  relapse  into  the  German 
fs,  "I  have  never  had  a  happier  moment  in  my  life,  my  friend, 
than  when  I  congratulate  you  on  your  success."  His  voice 
shook  with  emotion.  "Alas,  we  shall  not  see  so  much  of 
you  now." 

"He'll  be  on  guard,  Scherer,"  said  Leonard  Dickinson, 
putting  his  arm  around  my  chief. 

"Good  night,  Senator,"  said  Tallant,  and  all  echoed  the 
word,  which  struck  me  as  peculiarly  appropriate.  Much  as 
I  had  admired  Mr.  Watling  before,  it  seemed  indeed  as  if  he 
had  undergone  some  subtle  change  in  the  last  few  hours, 
gained  in  dignity  and  greatness  by  the  action  of  the  people 
that  day.  When  it  came  my  turn  to  bid  him  good  night,  he 
retained  my  hand  in  his. 

"  Don't  go  yet,  Hugh,"  he  said. 

"But  you  must  be  tired,"  I  objected. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  223 

"This  sort  of  thing  doesn't  make  a  man  tired,"  he  laughed, 
leading  me  back  to  the  library,  where  he  began  to  poke  the 
fire  into  a  blaze.  "Sit  down  awhile.  You  must  be  tired,  I 
think,  —  you've  worked  hard  in  this  campaign,  a  good  deal 
harder  than  I  have.  I  haven't  said  much  about  it,  but  I 
appreciate  it,  my  boy."  Mr.  Watling  had  the  gift  of  ex 
pressing  his  feelings  naturally,  without  sentimentality.  I 
would  have  given  much  for  that  gift. 

"Oh,  I  liked  it,"  I  replied  awkwardly. 

I  read  a  gentle  amusement  in  his  eyes,  and  also  the  ex 
pression  of  something  else,  difficult  to  define.  He  had  seated 
himself,  and  was  absently  thrusting  at  the  logs  with  the 
poker. 

"You've never  regretted  going  into  law?"  he  asked  sud 
denly,  to  my  surprise. 

"Why,  no,  sir,"  I  said. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that.  I  feel,  to  a  considerable  extent, 
responsible  for  your  choice  of  a  profession." 

"My  father  intended  me  to  be  a  lawyer,"  I  told  him. 
"But  it's  true  that  you  gave  me  my  —  my  first  enthus- 
siasm." 

He  looked  up  at  me  at  the  word. 

"I  admired  your  father.  He  seemed  to  me  to  be  every 
thing  that  a  lawyer  should  be.  And  years  ago,  when  I  came 
to  this  city  a  raw  country  boy  from  up  state,  he  represented 
and  embodied  for  me  all  the  fine  traditions  of  the  profession. 
But  the  practice  of  law  isn't  what  it  was  in  his  day,  Hugh." 

"No,"  I  agreed,  "that  could  scarcely  be  expected." 

"Yes,  I  believe  you  realize  that,"  he  said.  "I've  watched 
you,  I've  taken  a  personal  pride  in  you,  and  I  have  an  idea 
that  eventually  you  will  succeed  me  here  —  neither  Fowndes 
nor  Ripon  have  the  peculiar  ability  you  have  shown.  You 
and  I  are  alike  in  a  great  many  fespects,  and  I  am  inclined  to 
think  we  are  rather  rare,  as  men  go.  We  are  able  to  keep 
one  object  vividly  in  view,  so  vividly  as  to  be  able  to  work 
for  it  day  and  night.  I  could  mention  dozens  who  had  and 
have  more  natural  talent  for  the  law  than  I,  more  talent  for 


224  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

politics  than  I.  The  same  thing  may  be  said  about  you.  1 
don't  regard  either  of  us  as  natural  lawyers,  such  as  your 
father  was.  He  couldn't  help  being  a  lawyer." 

Here  was  new  evidence  of  his  perspicacity. 

"But  surely,"  I  ventured,  "you  don't  feel  any  regrets 
Concerning  your  career,  Mr.  Watling  ? " 

"No,"  he  said,  "that's  just  the  point.  But  no  two  of  us 
ire  made  wholly  alike.  I  hadn't  practised  law  very  long 
before  I  began  to  realize  that  conditions  were  changing,  that 
the  new  forces  at  work  in  our  industrial  life  made  the  older 
legal  ideals  impracticable.  It  was  a  case  of  choosing  between 
efficiency  and  inefficiency,  and  I  chose  efficiency.  Well, 
that  was  my  own  affair,  but  when  it  comes  to  influencing 
others — "  He  paused.  "I  want  you  to  see  this  as  I  do, 
not  for  the  sake  of  justifying  myself,  but  because  I  honestly 
believe  there  is  more  to  it  than  expediency,  —  a  good  deal 
more.  There's  a  weak  way  of  looking  at  it,  and  a  strong 
way.  And  if  I  feel  sure  you  understand  it,  I  shall  be  satisfied. 

"  Because  things  are  going  to  change  in  this  country,  Hugh. 
They  are  changing,  but  they  are  going  to  change  more.  A 
man  has  got  to  make  up  his  mind  what  he  believes  in,  and  be 
ready  to  fight  for  it.  We'll  have  to  fight  for  it,  sooner  per 
haps  than  we  realize.  We  are  a  nation  divided  against 
ourselves ;  democracy  —  Jacksonian  democracy,  at  all 
events,  is  a  flat  failure,  and  we  may  as  well  acknowledge  it. 
We  have  a  political  system  we  have  outgrown,  and  which, 
therefore,  we  have  had  to  nullify.  There  are  certain  needs, 
certain  tendencies  of  development  in  nations  as  well  as  in 
individuals,  —  needs  stronger  than  the  state,  stronger  than 
the  law  or  constitution.  In  order  to  make  our  resources 
effective,  combinations  of  capital  are  more  and  more  neces 
sary,  and  no  more  to  be  denied  than  a  chemical  process, 
given  the  proper  ingredients,  can  be  thwarted.  The  men 
who  control  capital  must  have  a  free  hand,  or  the  structure 
will  be  destroyed.  This  compels  us  to  do  many  things 
which  we  would  rather  not  do,  which  we  might  accomplish 
openly  and  unopposed  if  conditions  were  frankly  recognized, 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  225 

and  met  by  wise  statesmanship  which  sought  to  bring  about 
harmony  by  the  reshaping  of  laws  and  policies.  Do  you  fol 
low  me?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "But  I  have  never  heard  the  situ 
ation  stated  so  clearly.  Do  you  think  the  day  will  come 
when  statesmanship  will  recognize  this  need?" 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I'm  afraid  not  —  in  my  time,  at  least. 
But  we  shall  have  to  develop  that  kind  of  statesmen  or  go  on. 
the  rocks.  Public  opinion  in  the  old  democratic  sense  is  a 
myth;  it  must  be  made  by  strong  individuals  who  recog 
nize  and  represent  evolutionary  needs,  otherwise  it's  at  the 
mercy  of  demagogues  who  play  fast  and  loose  with  the 
prejudice  and  ignorance  of  the  mob.  The  people  don't 
value  the  vote,  they  know  nothing  about  the  real  problems. 
So  far  as  I  can  see,  they  are  as  easily  swayed  to-day  as  the 
crowd  that  listened  to  Mark  Antony's  oration  about 
Csesar.  You've  seen  how  we  have  to  handle  them,  in  this 
election  and  —  in  other  matters.  It  isn't  a  pleasant  prac 
tice,  something  we'd  indulge  in  out  of  choice,  but  the  alter 
native  is  unthinkable.  We'd  have  chaos  in  no  time.  We've 
just  got  to  keep  hold,  you  understand  —  we  can't  leave  it  to 
the  irresponsible." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  In  this  mood  he  was  more  impressive 
than  I  had  ever  known  him,  and  his  confidence  flattered  and 
thrilled  me. 

"  In  the  meantime,  we're  criminals,"  he  continued.  "  From 
now  on  we'll  have  to  stand  more  and  more  denunciation  from 
the  visionaries,  the  dissatisfied,  the  trouble  makers.  We 
may  as  well  make  up  our  minds  to  it.  But  we've  got  some 
thing  on  our  side  worth  fighting  for,  and  the  man  who  is  able 
to  make  that  clear  will  be  great." 

"But  you  —  you  are  going  to  the  Senate,"  I  reminded 
him. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"The  time  has  not  yet  come,"  he  said.  "Confusion  and 
misunderstanding  must  increase  before  they  can  diminish. 
But  I  have  hopes  of  you,  Hugh,  or  I  shouldn't  have  spoken. 


226  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

I  shan't  be  here  now  —  of  course  I'll  keep  in  touch  with  you. 
I  wanted  to  be  sure  that  you  had  the  right  view  of  this 
thing." 

j&  "I  see  it  now,"  I  said.  "I  had  thought  of  it,  but  never  — 
never  as  a  whole  —  not  in  the  large  sense  in  which  you  have 
expressed  it."  To  attempt  to  acknowledge  or  deprecate 
the  compliment  he  had  paid  me  was  impossible ;  I  felt  that 
he  must  have  read  my  gratitude  and  appreciation  in  my 
manner. 

"  I  mustn't  keep  you  up  until  morning."  He  glanced  at  the 
clock,  and  went  with  me  through  the  hall  into  the  open  air. 
A  meteor  darted  through  the  November  night.  "We're 
like  that,"  he  observed,  staring  after  it,  a  "flash  across  the 
darkness,  and  we're  gone." 

"  Only  —  there  are  many  who  haven't  the  satisfaction  of 
a  flash,"  I  was  moved  to  reply. 

He  laughed  and  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  as  he  bade 
me  good  night. 

"  Hugh,  you  ought  to  get  married.  I'll  have  to  find  a  nice 
girl  for  you,"  he  said.  With  an  elation  not  unmingled  with 
awe  I  made  my  way  homeward. 

Theodore  Watling  had  given  me  a  creed. 


A  week  or  so  after  the  election  I  received  a  letter  from 
George  Hutchins  asking  me  to  come  to  Elkington.  I  shall 
not  enter  into  the  details  of  the  legal  matter  involved. 
Many  tunes  that  winter  I  was  a  guest  at  the  yellow-brick 
house,  and  I  have  to  confess,  as  spring  came  on,  that  I 
made  several  trips  to  Elkington  which  business  necessity  did 
not  absolutely  demand. 

I  considered  Maude  Hutchins,  and  found  the  consider 
ation  rather  a  delightful  process.  As  became  an  eligible  and 
successful  young  man,  I  was  careful  not  to  betray  too  much 
interest;  and  I  occupied  myself  at  first  with  a  review  of 
what  I  deemed  her  shortcomings.  Not  that  I  was  thinking 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  227 

of  marriage  —  but  I  had  imagined  the  future  Mrs.  Paret  as 
tall ;  Maude  was  up  to  my  chin :  again,  the  hair  of  the 
fortunate  lady  was  to  be  dark,  and  Maude's  was  golden  red : 
my  ideal  had  esprit,  lightness  of  touch,  the  faculty  of  seizing 
just  the  aspect  of  a  subject  that  delighted  me,  and  a  knowl 
edge  of  the  world ;  Maude  was  simple,  direct,  and  in  a  word 
provincial.  Her  provinciality,  however,  was  negative  rather 
than  positive,  she  had  no  disagreeable  mannerisms,  her  voice 
was  not  nasal ;  her  plasticity  appealed  to  me.  I  suppose  I 
was  lost  without  knowing  it  when  I  began  to  think  of  mould 
ing  her. 

All  of  this  went  on  at  frequent  intervals  during  the  winter, 
and  while  I  was  organizing  the  Elkington  Power  and  Trac 
tion  Company  for  George  I  found  time  to  dine  and  sup  at 
Maude's  house,  and  to  take  walks  with  her.  I  thought  I 
detected  an  incense  deliciously  sweet;  by  no  means  over 
powering,  like  the  lily's,  but  more  like  the  shy  fragrance  of 
the  wood  flower.  I  recall  her  kind  welcomes,  the  faint 
deepening  of  colour  in  her  cheeks  when  she  greeted  me,  and 
while  I  suspected  that  she  looked  up  to  me  she  had  a  surpris 
ing  and  tantalizing  self-command. 

There  came  moments  when  I  grew  slightly  alarmed,  as,  for 
instance,  one  Sunday  in  the  early  spring  when  I  was  dining  at 
the  Ezra  Hutchins's  house  and  surprised  Mrs.  Hutchins's 
glance  on  me,  suspecting  her  of  seeking  to  divine  what  man 
ner  of  man  I  was.  I  became  self-conscious ;  I  dared  not  look 
at  Maude,  who  sat  across  the  table ;  thereafter  I  began  to 
feel  that  the  Hutchins  connection  regarded  me  as  a  suitor. 
I  had  grown  intimate  with  George  and  his  wife,  who  did  not 
refrain  from  sly  allusions;  and  George  himself  once  re 
marked,  with  characteristic  tact,  that  I  was  most  conscien 
tious  in  my  attention  to  the  traction  affair ;  I  have  reason  to 
believe  they  were  even  less  delicate  with  Maude.  This  was 
the  logical  time  to  withdraw  —  but  I  dallied.  The  expe 
rience  was  becoming  more  engrossing,  —  if  I  may  so  describe 
it,  —  and  spring  was  approaching.  The  stars  in  their  courses 
were  conspiring.  I  was  by  no  means  as  yet  a  self-acknowl- 


228  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

edged  wooer,  and  we  discussed  love  in  its  lighter  phases 
through  the  medium  of  literature.  Heaven  forgive  me  for 
calling  it  so!  About  that  period,  it  will  be  remembered,  a 
mushroom  growth  of  volumes  of  a  certain  kind  sprang  into 
existence;  little  books  with  "artistic"  bindings  and  wide 
margins,  sweetened  essays,  some  of  them  written  in  beautiful 
English  by  dilettante  authors  for  drawing-room  consump 
tion;  and  collections  of  short  stories,  no  doubt  chiefly 
bought  by  philanderers  like  myself,  who  were  thus  enabled 
to  skate  on  thin  ice  over  deep  water.  It  was  a  most  delightful 
relationship  that  these  helped  to  support,  and  I  fondly  be 
lieved  I  could  reach  shore  again  whenever  I  chose. 

There  came  a  Sunday  in  early  May,  one  of  those  days 
when  the  feminine  assumes  a  large  importance.  I  had  been  to 
the  Hutchinses'  church ;  and  Maude,  as  she  sat  and  prayed 
decorously  in  the  pew  beside  me,  suddenly  increased  in 
attractiveness  and  desirability.  Her  voice  was  very  sweet, 
and  I  felt  a  delicious  and  languorous  thrill  which  I  identified 
not  only  with  love,  but  also  with  a  reviving  spirituality. 
How  often  the  two  seem  to  go  hand  in  hand ! 

She  wore  a  dress  of  a  filmy  material,  mauve,  with  a  design 
in  gold  thread  running  through  it.  Of  late,  it  seemed,  she 
had  had  more  new  dresses:  and  their  modes  seemed  more 
cosmopolitan;  at  least  to  the  masculine  eye.  How  deli 
cately  her  hair  grew,  in  little,  shining  wisps,  around  her 
white  neck !  I  could  have  reached  out  my  hand  and  touched 
her.  And  it  was  this  desire,  —  although  by  no  means  over 
whelming,  —  that  startled  me.  Did  I  really  want  her  ? 
The  consideration  of  this  vital  question  occupied  the  whole 
time  of  the  sermon ;  made  me  distrait  at  dinner,  —  a  large 
family  gathering.  Later  I  found  myself  alone  with  her  on  a 
bench  in  the  Hutchinses'  garden  where  we  had  walked  the 
day  of  my  arrival,  during  the  campaign. 

The  gardens  were  very  different,  now.  The  trees  had 
burst  forth  again  into  leaf,  the  spiraea  bushes  seemed 
weighted  down  with  snow,  and  with  a  note  like  that  of  the 
quivering  bass  string  of  a  'cello  the  bees  hummed  among  the 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  229 

fruit  blossoms.  And  there  beside  me  in  her  filmy  dress  was 
Maude,  a  part  of  it  all  —  the  meaning  of  all  that  set  my 
being  clamouring.  She  was  like  some  ripened,  delicious 
flower  ready  to  be  picked.  .  .  .  One  of  those  pernicious, 
make-believe  volumes  had  fallen  on  the  bench  between  us, 
for  I  could  not  read  any  more ;  I  could  not  think ;  I  touched 
her  hand,  and  when  she  drew  it  gently  away  I  glanced  at  her. 
Reason  made  a  valiant  but  hopeless  effort  to  assert  itself. 
Was  I  sure  that  I  wanted  her  —  for  life  ?  No  use  1  I 
wanted  her  now,  no  matter  what  price  that  future  might 
demand.  An  awkward  silence  fell  between  us  —  awkward  to 
me,  at  least  —  and  I,  her  guide  and  mentor,  became  banal, 
apologetic,  confused.  I  made  some  idiotic  remark  about 
being  together  in  the  Garden  of  Eden. 

"I  remember  Mr.  Doddridge  saying  in  Bible  class  that  it 
was  supposed  to  be  on  the  Euphrates,"  she  replied.  "But 
it's  been  destroyed  by  the  flood." 

"  Let's  make  another  —  one  of  our  own,"  I  suggested. 

"Why,  how  silly  you  are  this  afternoon." 

"What's  to  prevent  us  —  Maude?"  I  demanded,  with  a 
dry  throat. 

"  Nonsense ! "  she  laughed.  In  proportion  as  I  lost  poise 
she  seemed  to  gain  it. 

"It's  not  nonsense,"  I  faltered.     "If  we  were  married." 

At  last  the  fateful  words  were  pronounced  —  irrevocably. 
And,  instead  of  qualms,  I  felt  nothing  but  relief,  joy  that  I 
had  been  swept  along  by  the  flood  of  feeling.  She  did  not 
look  at  me,  but  gazed  straight  ahead  of  her. 

"If  I  love  you,  Maude?"  I  stammered,  after  a  moment. 

"But  I  don't  love  you,"  she  replied,  steadily. 

Never  in  my  life  had  I  been  so  utterly  taken  aback. 

"Do  you  mean,"  I  managed  to  say,  "that  after  all  these 
months  you  don't  like  me  a  little?" 

"'Liking'  isn't  loving."  She  looked  me  full  in  the  face. 
"I  like  you  very  much." 

"But  — "  there  I  stopped,  paralyzed  by  what  appeared  to 
me  the  quintessence  of  feminine  inconsistency  and  caprice. 


230  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Yet,  as  I  stared  at  her,  she  certainly  did  not  appear  capri< 
cious.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  I  was  fairly  astounded 
at  this  evidence  of  self-command  and  decision,  of  the  strength 
of  mind  to  refuse  me.  Was  it  possible  that  she  had  felt 
nothing  and  I  all  ?  I  got  to  my  feet. 

"I  hate  to  hurt  your  feelings,"  I  heard  her  say.  "I'm 
very  sorry."  .  .  .  She  looked  up  at  me.  Afterwards,  when 
reflecting  on  the  scene,  I  seemed  to  remember  that  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes.  I  was  not  in  a  condition  to  appreciate  her 
splendid  sincerity.  I  was  overwhelmed  and  inarticulate.  I 
left  her  there,  on  the  bench,  and  went  back  to  George's, 
announcing  my  intention  of  taking  the  five  o'clock  train.  .  .  . 


Maude  Hutchins  had  become,  at  a  stroke,  the  most  desir 
able  of  women.  I  have  often  wondered  how  I  should  have 
felt  on  that  five-hour  journey  back  to  the  city  if  she  had 
fallen  into  my  arms !  I  should  have  persuaded  myself,  no 
doubt,  that  I  had  not  done  a  foolish  thing  in  yielding  to  an 
impulse  and  proposing  to  an  inexperienced  and  provincial 
young  woman,  yet  there  would  have  been  regrets  in  the 
background.  Too  deeply  chagrined  to  see  any  humour  in 
the  situation,  I  settled  down  in  a  Pullman  seat  and  went  over 
and  over  again  the  event  of  that  afternoon  until  the  train 
reached  the  city. 

As  the  days  wore  on,  and  I  attended  to  my  cases,  I  thought 
of  Maude  a  great  deal,  and  in  those  moments  when  the  pres 
sure  of  business  was  relaxed,  she  obsessed  me.  She  must 
love  me,  —  only  she  did  not  realize  it.  That  was  the  secret ! 
Her  value  had  risen  amazingly,  become  supreme ;  the  very 
act  of  refusing  me  had  emphasized  her  qualifications  as  a 
wife,  and  I  now  desired  her  with  all  the  intensity  of  a  nature 
which  had  been  permitted  always  to  achieve  its  objects.  The 
inevitable  process  of  idealization  began.  In  dusty  offices  I 
recalled  her  freshness  as  she  had  sat  beside  me  in  the  garden, 
—  the  freshness  of  a  flower;  with  Berkeleyan  subjectivism  I 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  231 

clothed  the  flower  with  colour,  bestowed  it  with  fragrance. 
I  conferred  on  Maude  all  the  gifts  and  graces  that  woman 
had  possessed  since  the  creation.  And  I  recalled,  with  min 
gled  bitterness  and  tenderness,  the  turn  of  her  head,  the 
down  on  her  neck,  the  half-revealed  curve  of  her  arm.  .  .  . 

In  spite  of  the  growing  sordidness  of  Lyme  Street,  my 
mother  and  I  still  lived  in  the  old  house,  for  which  she  very 
naturally  had  a  sentiment.  In  vain  I  had  urged  her  from 
tune  to  time  to  move  out  into  a  brighter  and  fresher  neigh 
bourhood.  It  would  be  time  enough,  she  said,  when  I  was 
married. 

"If  you  wait  for  that,  mother,"  I  answered,  "we  shall 
spend  the  rest  of  our  lives  here." 

"  I  shall  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  here,"  she  would  declare. 
"  But  you  —  you  have  your  life  before  you,  my  dear.  You 
would  be  so  much  more  contented  if  —  if  you  could  find 
some  nice  girl.  I  think  you  live  —  too  feverishly." 

I  do  not  know  whether  or  not  she  suspected  me  of  being  in 
love,  nor  indeed  how  much  she  read  of  me  in  other  ways.  I 
did  not  confide  in  her,  nor  did  it  strike  me  that  she  might 
have  yearned  for  confidences;  though  sometimes,  when  I 
dined  at  home,  I  surprised  her  gentle  face  —  framed  now 
with  white  hair  —  lifted  wistfully  toward  me  across  the 
table.  Our  relationship,  indeed,  was  a  pathetic  projection 
of  that  which  had  existed  in  my  childhood ;  we  had  never 
been  confidants  then.  The  world  in  which  I  lived  and  fought, 
of  great  transactions  and  merciless  consequences  frightened 
her ;  her  own  world  was  more  limited  than  ever.  She  heard 
disquieting  things,  I  am  sure,  from  Cousin  Robert  Breck, 
who  had  become  more  and  more  querulous  since  the  time- 
honoured  firm  of  Breck  and  Company  had  been  forced  to 
close  its  doors  and  the  home  at  Claremore  had  been  sold. 
My  mother  often  spent  the  day  in  the  scrolled  suburban 
cottage  with  the  coloured  glass  front  door  where  he  lived 
with  the  Kinleys  and  Helen.  .  .  . 

If  my  mother  suspected  that  I  was  anticipating  marriage, 
and  said  nothing,  Nancy  Durrett  suspected  and  spoke  out. 


232  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Life  is  such  a  curious  succession  of  contradictions  and  sur 
prises  that  I  record  here  without  comment  the  fact  that  I 
was  seeing  much  more  of  Nancy  since  her  marriage  than  I 
had  in  the  years  preceding  it.  A  comradeship  existed  be 
tween  us.  I  often  dined  at  her  house  and  had  fallen  into  the 
habit  of  stopping  there  frequently  on  my  way  home  in  the 
evening.  Ham  did  not  seem  to  mind.  What  was  clear,  at 
any  rate,  was  that  Nancy,  before  marriage,  had  exacted  some 
sort  of  an  understanding  by  which  her  "freedom"  was  not 
to  be  interfered  with.  She  was  the  first  among  us  of  the 
"modern  wives." 

Ham,  whose  heartstrings  and  purse-strings  were  oddly 
intertwined,  had  stipulated  that  they  were  to  occupy  the 
old  Durrett  mansion;  but  when  Nancy  had  made  it  "liv 
able,"  as  she  expressed  it,  he  is  said  to  have  remarked  that 
he  might  as  well  have  built  a  new  house  and  been  done  with 
it.  Not  even  old  Nathaniel  himself  would  have  recognized 
his  home  when  Nancy  finished  what  she  termed  furnishing : 
out  went  the  horsehair,  the  hideous  chandeliers,  the  stuffy 
books,  the  R6camier  statuary,  and  an  army  of  upholsterers, 
woodworkers,  etc.,  from  Boston  and  New  York  invaded 
the  place.  The  old  mahogany  doors  were  spared,  but 
matched  now  by  Chippendale  and  Sheraton;  the  new, 
polished  floors  were  covered  with  Oriental  rugs,  the  dreary 
Durrett  pictures  replaced  by  good  canvases  and  tapestries. 
Nancy  had  what  amounted  to  a  genius  for  interior  effects, 
and  she  was  the  first  to  introduce  among  us  the  luxury  that 
was  to  grow  more  and  more  prevalent  as  our  wealth  increased 
by  leaps  and  bounds.  Only  Nancy's  luxury,  though  lavish, 
was  never  vulgar,  and  her  house  when  completed  had  rather 
marvellously  the  fine  distinction  of  some  old  London  man 
sion  filled  with  the  best  that  generations  could  contribute. 
It  left  Mrs.  Frederick  Grierson  —  whose  residence  on  the 
Heights  had  hitherto  been  our  "grandest"  —  breathless  with 
despair. 

With  characteristic  audacity  Nancy  had  chosen  old 
Nathaniel's  sanctum  for  her  particular  salon,  into  which 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  233 

Ham  himself  did  not  dare  to  venture  without  invitation. 
It  was  hung  in  Pompeiian  red  and  had  a  little  wrought-iron 
balcony  projecting  over  the  yard,  now  transformed  by  an 
expert  into  a  garden.  When  I  had  first  entered  this  room 
after  the  metamorphosis  had  taken  place  I  inquired  after  the 
tombstone  mantel. 

"Oh,  I've  pulled  it  up  by  the  roots,"  she  said. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  of  ghosts?"  I  inquired. 

"Do  I  look  it?"  she  asked.  And  I  confessed  that  she 
didn't.  Indeed,  all  ghosts  were  laid,  nor  was  there  about 
her  the  slightest  evidence  of  mourning  or  regret.  One  was 
forced  to  acknowledge  her  perfection  in  the  part  she  had 
chosen  as  the  arbitress  of  social  honours.  The  candidates 
were  rapidly  increasing;  almost  every  month,  it  seemed, 
someone  turned  up  with  a  fortune  and  the  aspirations  that 
go  with  it,  and  it  was  Mrs.  Durrett  who  decided  the  delicate 
question  of  fitness.  With  these,  and  with  the  world  at  large, 
her  manner  might  best  be  described  as  difficult ;  and  I  was 
often  amused  at  the  way  in  which  she  contrived  to  keep  them 
at  arm's  length  and  make  them  uncomfortable.  With  her 
intimates  —  of  whom  there  were  few  —  she  was  frank. 

"  I  suppose  you  enjoy  it,"  I  said  to  her  once. 

"Of  course  I  enjoy  it,  or  I  shouldn't  do  it,"  she  retorted. 
"It  isn't  the  real  thing,  as  I  told  you  once.  But  none  of 
us  gets  the  real  thing.  It's  power.  .  .  .  Just  as  you  enjoy 
what  you're  doing  —  sorting  out  the  unfit.  It's  a  game,  it 
keeps  us  from  brooding  over  things  we  can't  help.  And 
after  all,  when  we  have  good  appetites  and  are  fairly  happy, 
why  should  we  complain?" 

"I'm  not  complaining,"  I  said,  taking  up  a  cigarette, 
"since  I  still  enjoy  your  favour." 

She  regarded  me  curiously. 

"And  when  you  get  married,  Hugh?" 

"Sufficient  unto  the  day,"  I  replied. 

"How  shall  I  get  along,  I  wonder,  with  that  simple  and 
unsophisticated  lady  when  she  appears  ?  " 

"Well,"  I  said,  "you  wouldn't  marry  me." 


234  A  FAR. COUNTRY 

She  shook  her  head  at  me,  and  smiled.  .  .  . 

"No,"  she  corrected  me,  "you  like  me  better  as  Hams' 
wife  than  you  would  have  as  your  own." 

I  merely  laughed  at  this  remark.  ...  It  would  indeed 
have  been  difficult  to  analyze  the  new  relationship  that  had 
sprung  up  between  us,  to  say  what  elements  composed  it. 
The  roots  of  it  went  back  to  the  beginning  of  our  lives ;  and 
there  was  much  of  sentiment  in  it,  no  doubt.  She  under 
stood  me  as  no  one  else  in  the  world  understood  me,  and  she 
was  fond  of  me  in  spite  of  it. 

Hence,  when  I  became  infatuated  with  Maude  Hutchins, 
after  that  Sunday  when  she  so  unexpectedly  had  refused 
me,  I  might  have  known  that  Nancy's  suspicions  would  be 
aroused.  She  startled  me  by  accusing  me,  out  of  a  clear 
sky,  of  being  in  love.  I  denied  it  a  little  too  emphatically. 

"Why  shouldn't  you  tell  me,  Hugh,  if  it's  so?"  she  asked. 
"I  didn't  hesitate  to  tell  you." 

It  was  just  before  her  departure  for  the  East  to  spend  the 
summer.  We  were  on  the  balcony,  shaded  by  the  big  maple 
that  grew  at  the  end  of  the  garden. 

"But  there's  nothing  to  tell,"  I  insisted. 

She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  regarding  me. 

"Did  you  think  that  I'd  be  jealous?" 

"There's  nothing  to  be  jealous  about." 

"I've  always  expected  you  to  get  married,  Hugh.  I've 
even  predicted  the  type." 

She  had,  in  truth,  with  an  accuracy  almost  uncanny. 

"The  only  thing  I'm  afraid  of  is  that  she  won't  like  me. 
She  lives  in  that  place  you've  been  going  to  so  much,  lately, 
—  doesn't  she?" 

Of  course  she  had  put  two  and  two  together,  my  visits 
to  Elkington  and  my  manner,  which  I  had  flattered  myself 
had  not  been  distrait.  On  the  chance  that  she  knew  more, 
from  some  source,  I  changed  my  tactics. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  Maude  Hutchins,"  I  said. 

Nancy  laughed. 

"So  that's  her  namel" 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  235 

"It's  the  name  of  a  girl  in  Elkington.  I've  been  doing 
legal  work  for  the  Hutchinses,  and  I  imagine  some  idiot  has 
been  gossiping.  She's  just  a  young  girl  —  much  too  young 
for  me." 

"Men  are  queer  creatures,"  she  declared.  "Did you 
think  I  should  be  jealous?" 

It  was  exactly  what  I  had  thought,  but  I  denied  it. 

"  Why  should  you  be  —  even  if  there  were  anything  to 
be  jealous  about?  You  didn't  consult  me  when  you  got 
married.  You  merely  announced  an  irrevocable  decision." 

Nancy  leaned  forward  and  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  want  you 
to  be  happy.  I  don't  want  you  to  make  a  mistake,  Hugh,  — 
too  great  a  mistake." 

I  was  surprised  and  moved.  Once  more  I  had  a  momen 
tary  glimpse  of  the  real  Nancy.  .  .  . 

Our  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Ralph 
Hambleton. 


XIV 


HOWEVER,  thoughts  of  Maude  continued  to  possess  me. 
She  still  appeared  the  most  desirable  of  beings,  and  a  fort 
night  after  my  repulse,  without  any  excuse  at  all,  I  tele 
graphed  the  George  Hutchinses  that  I  was  coming  to  pay 
them  a  visit.  Mrs.  George,  wearing  a  knowing  smile,  met 
me  at  the  station  in  a  light  buck-board. 

"I've  asked  Maude  to  dinner,"  she  said.  .  .  . 

Thus  with  masculine  directness  I  returned  to  the  charge, 
and  Maude's  continued  resistance  but  increased  my  ardour ; 
I  could  not  see  why  she  continued  to  resist  me. 

"Because  I  don't  love  you,"  she  said. 

This  was  incredible.  I  suggested  that  she  didn't  know 
what  love  was,  and  she  admitted  it  was  possible:  she 
liked  me  very,  very  much.  I  told  her,  sagely,  that  this  was 
the  best  foundation  for  matrimony.  That  might  be,  but 
she  had  had  other  ideas.  For  one  thing,  she  felt  that  she 
did  not  know  me.  ...  In  short,  she  was  charming  and 
maddening  in  her  defensive  ruses,  in  her  advances  and  re 
treats,  for  I  pressed  her  hard  during  the  four  weeks  which 
followed,  and  in  them  made  four  visits.  Flinging  caution 
to  the  winds,  I  did  not  even  pretend  to  George  that  I  was 
coming  to  see  him  on  business.  I  had  the  Hutchins  family 
on  my  side,  for  they  had  the  sense  to  see  that  the  match  would 
be  an  advantageous  one;  I  even  summoned  up  enough 
courage  to  talk  to  Ezra  Hutchins  on  the  subject. 

"  I'll  not  attempt  to  influence  Maude,  Mr.  Paret  —  I've 
always  said  I  wouldn't  interfere  with  her  choice.  But  as 
you  are  a  young  man  of  sound  habits,  sir,  successful  in  your 
profession,  I  should  raise  no  objection.  I  suppose  we  can't 
keep  her  always." 

236 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  237 

To  conceal  his  emotion,  he  pulled  out  the  watch  he  lived  by. 

"Why,  it's  church  time!"  he  said.  ...  I  attended 
church  regularly  at  Elkington.  .  .  . 

On  a  Sunday  night  in  June,  following  a  day  during  which 
victory  seemed  more  distant  than  ever,  with  startling  un 
expectedness  Maude  capitulated.  She  sat  beside  me  on  the 
bench,  obscured,  yet  the  warm  night  quivered  with  her  pres 
ence.  I  felt  her  tremble.  ...  I  remember  the  first  ex 
quisite  touch  of  her  soft  cheek.  How  strange  it  was  that  in 
conquest  the  tumult  of  my  being  should  be  stilled,  that  my 
passion  should  be  transmuted  into  awe  that  thrilled  yet 
disquieted !  What  had  I  done  ?  It  was  as  though  I  had 
suddenly  entered  an  unimagined  sanctuary  filled  with  holy 
flame.  .  .  . 

Presently,  when  we  began  to  talk,  I  found  myself  seeking 
more  familiar  levels.  I  asked  her  why  she  had  so  long  resisted 
me,  accusing  her  of  having  loved  me  all  the  time. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  did,  Hugh.    Only  — I  didn't  know  it." 

"You  must  have  felt  something,  that  afternoon  when  I 
first  proposed  to  you ! " 

"You  didn't  really  want  me,  Hugh.     Not  then." 

Surprised,  and  a  little  uncomfortable  at  this  evidence  of 
intuition,  I  started  to  protest.  It  seemed  to  me  then  as 
though  I  had  always  wanted  her. 

"No,  no,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  didn't.  You  were  carried 
away  by  your  feelings  —  you  hadn't  made  up  your  mind. 
Indeed,  I  can't  see  why  you  want  me  now." 

"You  believe  I  do,"  I  said,  and  drew  her  toward  me. 

"Yes,  I  —  I  believe  it,  now.  But  I  can't  see  why.  There 
must  be  so  many  attractive  girls  in  the  city,  who  know  so 
much  more  than  I  do." 

I  sought  fervidly  to  reassure  her  on  this  point.  ...  At 
length  when  we  went  into  the  house  she  drew  away  from  me 
at  arm's  length  and  gave  me  one  long  searching  look,  as 
though  seeking  to  read  my  soul. 

"Hugh,  you  will  always  love  me  —  to  the  very  end,  won't 
you?" 


238  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Yes,"  I  whispered,  "always." 

In  the  library,  one  on  each  side  of  the  table,  under  the 
lamp,  Ezra  Hutchins  and  his  wife  sat  reading.  Mrs.  Hutch- 
ins  looked  up,  and  I  saw  that  she  had  divined. 

"Mother,  I  am  engaged  to  Hugh,"  Maude  said,  and  bent 
over  and  kissed  her.  Ezra  and  I  stood  gazing  at  them.  Then 
he  turned  to  me  and  pressed  my  hand. 

"  Well,  I  never  saw  the  man  who  was  good  enough  for  her, 
Hugh.  But  God  bless  you,  my  son.  I  hope  you  will  prize 
her  as  we  prize  her." 

Mrs.  Hutchins  embraced  me.  And  through  her  tears 
she,  too,  looked  long  into  my  face.  When  she  had  released 
me  Ezra  had  his  watch  in  his  hand. 

"If  you're  going  on  the  ten  o'clock  train,  Hugh — " 

"Father!"  Maude  protested,  laughing,  "I  must  say  I 
don't  call  that  very  polite."  .  .  . 

In  the  train  I  slept  but  fitfully,  awakening  again  and  again 
to  recall  the  extraordinary  fact  that  I  was  now  engaged  to 
be  married,  to  go  over  the  incidents  of  the  evening.  In 
different  to  the  backings  and  the  bumpings  of  the  car,  the 
voices  in  the  stations,  the  clanging  of  locomotive  bells  and 
all  the  incomprehensible  startings  and  stoppings,  exalted  yet 
troubled  I  beheld  Maude  luminous  with  the  love  I  had 
amazingly  awakened,  a  love  somewhere  beyond  my  compre 
hension.  For  her  indeed  marriage  was  made  in  heaven. 
But  for  me  ?  Could  I  rise  now  to  the  ideal  that  had  once 
been  mine,  thrust  henceforth  evil  out  of  my  life?  Love 
forever,  live  always  in  this  sanctuary  she  had  made  for  me? 
Would  the  tune  come  when  I  should  feel  a  sense  of  bondage  ? 

•     •     • 

The  wedding  was  set  for  the  end  of  September.  I  con 
tinued  to  go  every  week  to  Elkington,  and  in  August  Maude 
and  I  spent  a  fortnight  at  the  sea.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
as  to  my  mother's  happiness,  as  to  her  approval  of  Maude ; 
they  loved  each  other  from  the  beginning.  I  can  picture 
them  now,  sitting  together  with  their  sewing  on  the  porch 
of  the  cottage  at  Mattapoisett.  Out  on  the  bay  little  white- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  239 

caps  danced  in  the  sunlight,  sail-boats  tacked  hither  and 
thither,  the  strong  cape  breeze,  laden  with  invigorating  salt, 
stirred  Maude's  hair,  and  occasionally  played  havoc  with 
my  papers. 

"She  is  just  the  wife  for  you,  Hugh,"  my  mother  confided 
to  me.  "If  I  had  chosen  her  myself  I  could  not  have  done 
better,"  she  added,  with  a  smile. 

I  was  inclined  to  believe  it,  but  Maude  would  have  none 
of  this  illusion. 

"He  just  stumbled  across  me,"  she  insisted.  .  .  . 

We  went  on  long  sails  together,  towards  Wood's  Hole  and 
the  open  sea,  the  sprays  washing  over  us.  Her  cheeks  grew 
tanned.  .  .  .  Sometimes,  when  I  praised  her  and  spoke 
confidently  of  our  future,  she  wore  a  troubled  expression. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  I  asked  her  once. 

"You  mustn't  put  me  on  a  pedestal,"  she  said  gently. 
"  I  want  you  to  see  me  as  I  am  —  I  don't  want  you  to  wake 
up  some  day  and  be  disappointed.  I'll  have  to  learn  a  lot 
of  things,  and  you'll  have  to  teach  me.  I  can't  get  used  to 
the  fact  that  you,  who  are  so  practical  and  successful  in 
business,  should  be  such  a  dreamer  where  I  am  concerned." 

I  laughed,  and  told  her,  comfortably,  that  she  was  talking 
nonsense. 

"What  did  you  think  of  me,  when  you  first  knew  me?" 
I  inquired. 

"Well,"  she  answered,  with  the  courage  that  characterized 
her,  "I  thought  you  were  rather  calculating,  that  you  put 
too  high  a  price  on  success.  Of  course  you  attracted  me. 
I  own  it." 

"You  hid  your  opinions  rather  well,"  I  retorted,  some 
what  discomfited. 

She  flushed. 

"  Have  you  changed  them  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"I  think  you  have  that  side,  and  I  think  it  a  weak  side, 
Hugh.  It's  hard  to  tell  you  this,  but  it's  better  to  say  so 
now,  since  you  ask  me.  I  do  think  you  set  too  high  a  value 
on  success." 


240  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Well,  now  that  I  know  what  success  really  is,  perhaps 
I  shall  reform,"  I  told  her. 

"I  don't  like  to  think  that  you  fool  yourself,"  she  replied, 
with  a  perspicacity  I  should  have  found  extraordinary. 


Throughout  my  life  there  have  been  days  and  incidents, 
some  trivial,  some  important,  that  linger  in  my  memory 
because  they  are  saturated  with  "atmosphere."  I  recall, 
for  instance,  a  gala  occasion  in  youth  when  my  mother  gave 
one  of  her  luncheon  parties ;  on  my  return  from  school,  the 
house  and  its  surroundings  wore  a  mysterious,  exciting  and 
unfamiliar  look,  somehow  changed  by  the  simple  fact  that 
guests  sat  decorously  chatting  in  a  dining-room  shining  with 
my  mother's  best  linen  and  treasured  family  silver  and  china. 
The  atmosphere  of  my  wedding-day  is  no  less  vivid.  The 
house  of  Ezra  Hutchins  was  scarcely  recognizable :  its  doors 
and  windows  were  opened  wide,  and  all  the  morning  people 
were  being  escorted  upstairs  to  an  all-significant  room  that 
contained  a  collection  like  a  jeweller's  exhibit, — a  bewildering 
display.  There  was  a  massive  punch-bowl  from  which  dangled 
the  card  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Adolf  Scherer,  a  really  wonderful  tea 
set  of  old  English  silver  given  by  Senator  and  Mrs.  Watling, 
and  Nancy  Willett,  with  her  certainty  of  good  taste,  had  sent 
an  old  English  tankard  of  the  time  of  the  second  Charles. 
The  secret  was  in  that  room.  And  it  magically  transformed 
for  me  (as  I  stood,  momentarily  alone,  in  the  doorway  where 
I  had  first  beheld  Maude)  the  accustomed  scene,  and  charged 
with  undivined  significance  the  blue  shadows  under  the  heavy 
foliage  of  the  maples.  The  September  sunlight  was  heavy, 
tinged  with  gold.  .  .  . 

So  fragmentary  and  confused  are  the  events  of  that  day 
that  a  cubist  literature  were  necessary  to  convey  the  im 
pressions  left  upon  me.  I  had  something  of  the  feeling  of  a 
recruit  who  for  the  first  time  is  taking  part  in  a  brilliant  and 
complicated  manoeuvre.  Tom  and  Susan  Peters  flit  across 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  241 

the  view,  and  Gene  Hollister  and  Perry  Blackwood  and  the 
Ewanses,  —  all  of  whom  had  come  up  in  a  special  car ;  Ralph 
Hambleton  was  "best  man,"  looking  preternaturally  tall  in 
his  frock-coat:  and  his  manner,  throughout  the  whole 
proceeding,  was  one  of  good-natured  tolerance  toward  a 
folly  none  but  he  might  escape. 

"If  you  must  do  it,  Hughie,  I  suppose  you  must,"  he  had 
said  to  me.  "I'll  see  you  through,  of  course.  But  don't 
blame  me  afterwards." 

Maude  was  a  little  afraid  of  him.  .  .  . 

I  dressed  at  George's ;  then,  like  one  of  those  bewildering 
shifts  of  a  cinematograph,  comes  the  scene  in  church,  the 
glimpse  of  my  mother's  wistful  face  in  the  front  pew ;  and 
I  found  myself  in  front  of  the  austere  Mr.  Doddridge  stand 
ing  beside  Maude  —  or  rather  beside  a  woman  I  tried  hard 
to  believe  was  Maude  —  so  veiled  and  generally  encased 
was  she.  I  was  thinking  of  this  all  the  time  I  was  mechani 
cally  answering  Mr.  Doddridge,  and  even  when  the  wedding 
march  burst  forth  and  I  led  her  out  of  the  church.  It  was 
as  though  they  had  done  their  best  to  disguise  her,  to  put 
our  union  on  the  other-worldly  plane  that  was  deemed  to  be 
its  only  justification,  to  neutralize  her  sex  at  the  very  moment 
it  should  have  been  most  enhanced.  Well,  they  succeeded. 
If  I  had  not  been  as  conventional  as  the  rest,  I  should  have 
preferred  to  have  run  away  with  her  in  the  lavender  dress 
she  wore  when  I  first  proposed  to  her.  It  was  only  when  we 
had  got  into  the  carriage  and  started  for  the  house  and  she 
turned  to  me  her  face  from  which  the  veil  had  been  thrown 
back  that  I  realized  what  a  sublime  meaning  it  all  had  for 
her.  Her  eyes  were  wet.  Once  more  I  was  acutely  con 
scious  of  my  inability  to  feel  deeply  at  supreme  moments. 
For  months  I  had  looked  forward  with  anticipation  and  im 
patience  to  my  wedding-day. 

I  kissed  her  gently.  But  I  felt  as  though  she  had  gone  to 
heaven,  and  that  the  face  I  beheld  enshrouded  were  merely 
her  effigy.  Commonplace  words  were  inappropriate,  yet 
it  was  to  these  I  resorted. 


242  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"  Well  —  it  wasn't  so  bad  after  all !    Was  it  ?  " 

She  smiled  at  me. 

"  You  don't  want  to  take  it  back  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  think  it  was  a  beautiful  wedding,  Hugh.  I'm  so  glad 
we  had  a  good  day."  .  .  . 

She  seemed  shy,  at  once  very  near  and  very  remote.  I 
held  her  hand  awkwardly  until  the  carriage  stopped. 

A  little  later  we  were  standing  in  a  corner  of  the  parlour, 
the  atmosphere  of  which  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flowers, 
submitting  to  the  onslaught  of  relatives.  Then  came  the 
wedding  breakfast :  croquettes,  champagne,  chicken  salad, 
ice-cream,  the  wedding-cake,  speeches  and  more  kisses.  .  .  . 
I  remember  Tom  Peters  holding  on  to  both  my  hands. 

"Good-bye,  and  God  bless  you,  old  boy,"  he  was  saying. 
Susan,  in  view  of  the  occasion,  had  allowed  him  a  little  more 
champagne  than  usual  —  enough  to  betray  his  feelings,  and 
I  knew  that  these  had  not  changed  since  our  college  days. 
I  resolved  to  see  more  of  him.  I  had  neglected  him  and 
undervalued  his  loyalty.  ...  He  had  followed  me  to  my 
room  in  George's  house  where  I  was  dressing  for  the  journey, 
and  he  gave  it  as  his  deliberate  judgment  that  in  Maude 
I  had  "struck  gold." 

"  She's  just  the  girl  for  you,  Hughie,"  he  declared.  "  Susan 
thinks  so,  too." 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  as  we  sat  in  the  state-room  of  the 
car  that  was  bearing  us  eastward,  Maude  began  to  cry.  I 
satlooking  at  her  helplessly,  unable  to  enter  into  her  emotion, 
resenting  it  a  little.  Yet  I  tried  awkwardly  to  comfort  her. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  leave  them,"  she  said. 

"But  you  will  see  them  often,  when  we  come  back,"  I 
reassured  her.  It  was  scarcely  the  moment  for  reminding 
her  of  what  she  was  getting  in  return.  This  peculiar  family 
affection  she  evinced  was  beyond  me;  I  had  never  expe 
rienced  it  in  any  poignant  degree  since  I  had  gone  as  a  fresh 
man  to  Harvard,  and  yet  I  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  her 
emotions  were  so  rightly  placed.  It  was  natural  to  love  one's 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  243 

family.  I  began  to  feel,  vaguely,  as  I  watched  her,  that  the 
new  relationship  into  which  I  had  entered  was  to  be  much 
more  complicated  than  I  had  imagined.  Twilight  was  com 
ing  on,  the  train  was  winding  through  the  mountain  passes, 
crossing  and  recrossing  a  swift  little  stream  whose  banks 
were  massed  with  alder ;  here  and  there,  on  the  steep  hill 
sides,  blazed  the  goldenrod.  .  .  .  Presently  I  turned,  to 
surprise  in  her  eyes  a  wide,  questioning  look,  —  the  look  of  a 
child.  Even  in  this  irrevocable  hour  she  sought  to  grasp 
what  manner  of  being  was  this  to  whom  she  had  confided 
her  life,  and  with  whom  she  was  faring  forth  into  the  un 
known.  The  experience  was  utterly  unlike  my  anticipa 
tion.  Yet  I  responded.  The  kiss  I  gave  her  had  no 
passion  in  it. 

"I'll  take  good  care  of  you,  Maude,"  I  said. 

Suddenly,  in  the  fading  light,  she  flung  her  arms  around  me, 
pressing  me  tightly,  desperately. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  will,  Hugh,  dear.  And  you'll  forgive 
me,  won't  you,  for  being  so  horrid  to-day,  of  all  days  ?  I  do 
love  you!" 


Neither  of  us  had  ever  been  abroad.  And  although  it 
was  before  the  days  of  swimming-pools  and  gymnasiums  and 
a  la  carte  cafes  on  ocean  liners,  the  Alaric  was  imposing 
enough.  Maude  had  a  more  lasting  capacity  for  pleasure 
than  I,  a  keener  enjoyment  of  new  experiences,  and  as  she 
lay  beside  me  in  the  steamer-chair  where  I  had  carefully 
tucked  her  she  would  exclaim :  — 

"I  simply  can't  believe  it,  Hugh!  It  seems  so  unreal. 
I'm  sure  I  shall  wake  up  and  find  myself  back  in  Elkington." 

"Don't  speak  so  loud,  my  dear,"  I  cautioned  her.  There 
were  some  very  formal-looking  New  Yorkers  next  us. 

"No,  I  won't,"  she  whispered.  "But  I'm  so  happy  I 
feel  as  though  I  should  like  to  tell  everyone." 

"There's  no  need,"  I  answered  smiling. 

"Oh,  Hugh,  I  don't  want  to  disgrace  you !"  she  exclaimed, 


244  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

in  real  alarm.  "Otherwise,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I 
shouldn't  care  who  knew." 

People  smiled  at  her.  Women  came  up  and  took  her 
hands.  And  on  the  fourth  day  the  formidable  New  Yorkers 
unexpectedly  thawed. 

I  had  once  thought  of  Maude  as  plastic.  Then  I  had  dis 
covered  she  had  a  mind  and  will  of  her  own.  Once  more  she 
seemed  plastic;  her  love  had  made  her  so.  Was  it  not 
what  I  had  desired?  I  had  only  to  express  a  wish,  and  it 
became  her  law.  Nay,  she  appealed  to  me  many  times  a 
day  to  know  whether  she  had  made  any  mistakes,  and  I  be 
gan  to  drill  her  in  my  silly  traditions,  —  gently,  very  gently. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  be  quite  so  familiar  with  people,  quite 
so  ready  to  make  acquaintances,  Maude.  You  have  no 
idea  who  they  may  be.  Some  of  them,  of  course,  like  the 
Sardells,  I  know  by  reputation." 

The  Sardells  were  the  New  Yorkers  who  sat  next  us. 

"I'll  try,  Hugh,  to  be  more  reserved,  more  like  the  wife 
of  an  important  man."  She  smiled. 

"It  isn't  that  you're  not  reserved,"  I  replied,  ignoring 
the  latter  half  of  her  remark.  "Nor  that  I  want  you  to 
change,"  I  said.  "I  only  want  to  teach  you  what  little  of 
the  world  I  know  myself." 

"And  I  want  to  learn,  Hugh.  You  don't  know  how  I 
want  to  learn ! " 

The  sight  of  mist-ridden  Liverpool  is  not  a  cheering  one 
for  the  American  who  first  puts  foot  on  the  mother  country's 
soil,  a  Liverpool  of  yellow-browns  and  dingy  blacks,  of 
tilted  funnels  pouring  out  smoke  into  an  atmosphere  already 
charged  with  it.  The  long  wharves  and  shed  roofs  glistened 
with  moisture. 

"  Just  think,  Hugh,  it's  actually  England ! "  she  cried,  as 
we  stood  on  the  wet  deck.  But  I  felt  as  though  I'd  been 
there  before. 

"No  wonder  they're  addicted  to  cold  baths,"  I  replied. 
"They  must  feel  perfectly  at  home  in  them,  especially 
if  they  put  a  little  lampblack  in  the  water." 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  245 

Maude  laughed. 

"You  grumpy  old  thing !"  she  exclaimed. 

Nothing  could  dampen  her  ardour,  not  the  sight  of  the 
rain-soaked  stone  houses  when  we  got  ashore,  nor  even  the 
frigid  luncheon  we  ate  in  the  lugubrious  hotel.  For  her  it 
was  all  quaint  and  new.  Finally  we  found  ourselves  es 
tablished  in  a  compartment  upholstered  in  light  grey,  with 
tassels  and  arm-supporters,  on  the  window  of  which  was 
pasted  a  poster  with  the  word  reserved  in  large,  red  letters. 
The  guard  inquired  respectfully,  as  the  porter  put  our  new 
luggage  in  the  racks,  whether  we  had  everything  we  wanted. 
The  toy  locomotive  blew  its  toy  whistle,  and  we  were  off 
for  the  north ;  past  dingy,  yellow  tenements  of  the  smoking 
factory  towns,  and  stretches  of  orderly,  hedge-spaced  rain 
swept  country.  The  quaint  cottages  we  glimpsed,  the  sight 
of  distant,  stately  mansions  on  green  slopes  caused  Maude 
to  cry  out  with  rapture :  — 

"  Oh,  Hugh,  there's  a  manor-house ! " 

More  vivid  than  were  the  experiences  themselves  of  that 
journey  are  the  memories  of  them.  We  went  to  wind 
swept,  Sabbath-keeping  Edinburgh,  to  high  Stirling  and  dark 
Holyrood,  and  to  Abbotsford.  It  was  through  Sir  Walter's 
eyes  we  beheld  Melrose  bathed  in  autumn  light,  by  his  aid 
repeopled  it  with  forgotten  monks  eating  their  fast-day  kale. 
And  as  we  sat  reading  and  dreaming  in  the  still,  sunny  corners 
I  forgot  that  struggle  for  power  in  which  I  had  been  so 
furiously  engaged  since  leaving  Cambridge.  Legislatures, 
politicians  and  capitalists  receded  into  a  dim  background ; 
and  the  gift  I  had  possessed,  in  youth,  of  living  in  a  realm  of 
fancy  showed  astonishing  signs  of  revival. 

"Why,  Hugh,"  Maude  exclaimed,  "you  ought  to  have 
been  a  writer!" 

"You've  only  just  begun  to  fathom  my  talents,"  I  replied 
laughingly.  "Did  you  think  you'd  married  just  a  dry  old 
lawyer  ?  " 

"I  believe  you  capable  of  anything,"  she  said.  .  .  . 

I  grew  more  and  more  to  depend  on  her  for  little  things. 


246  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

She  was  a  born  housewife.  It  was  pleasant  to  have  her  do 
all  the  packing,  while  I  read  or  sauntered  in  the  queer  streets 
about  the  inns.  And  she  took  complete  charge  of  my  ward 
robe. 

She  had  a  talent  for  drawing,  and  as  we  went  southward 
through  England  she  made  sketches  of  the  various  houses 
that  took  our  fancy  —  suggestions  for  future  home-building ; 
we  spent  hours  in  the  evenings  in  the  inn  sitting-rooms 
incorporating  new  features  into  our  residence,  continually 
modifying  our  plans.  Now  it  was  a  Tudor  house  that  carried 
us  away,  now  a  Jacobean,v  and  again  an  early  Georgian  with 
enfolding  wings  and  a  wrought-iron  grill.  A  stage  of  be 
wilderment  succeeded. 

Maude,  I  knew,  loved  the  cottages  best.  She  said  they 
were  more  "homelike."  But  she  yielded  to  my  liking  for 
grandeur. 

"My,  I  should  feel  lost  in  a  palace  like  that  I"  she  cried, 
as  we  gazed  at  the  Marquis  of  So-and-So's  country-seat. 

"  Well,  of  course  we  should  have  to  modify  it,"  I  admitted. 
"Perhaps  —  perhaps  OUT  family  will  be  larger." 

She  put  her  hand  on  my  lips,  and  blushed  a  fiery  red.  .  .  . 

We  examined,  with  other  tourists,  at  a  shilling  apiece 
historic  mansions  with  endless  drawing-rooms,  halls,  libraries, 
galleries  filled  with  family  portraits ;  elaborate,  formal  bed 
rooms  where  famous  sovereigns  had  slept,  all  roped  off  and 
carpeted  with  canvas  strips  to  protect  the  floors.  Through 
mullioned  windows  we  caught  glimpses  of  gardens  and  geo 
metrical  parterres,  lakes,  f ountains,  statuary,  fantastic  topiary 
and  distant  stretches  of  park.  Maude  sighed  with  admira 
tion,  but  did  not  covet.  She  had  me.  But  I  was  often  un 
comfortable,  resenting  the  vulgar,  gaping  tourists  with 
whom  we  were  herded  and  the  easy  familiarity  of  the  guides. 
These  did  not  trouble  Maude,  who  often  annoyed  me  by 
asking  nai've  questions  herself.  I  would  nudge  her. 

One  afternoon  when,  with  other  compatriots,  we  were  being 
hurried  through  a  famous  castle,  the  guide  unwittingly 
ushered  us  into  a  drawing-room  where  the  owner  and  several 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  247 

guests  were  seated  about  a  tea-table.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  stares  they  gave  us  before  we  had  tune  precipitately  to 
retreat,  nor  the  feeling  of  disgust  and  rebellion  that  came 
over  me.  This  was  heightened  by  the  remark  of  a  heavy, 
six-foot  Ohioan  with  an  infantile  face  and  a  genial  manner. 

"  I  notice  that  they  didn't  invite  us  to  sit  down  and  have 
a  bite,"  he  said.  "I  call  that  kind  of  inhospitable." 

"It  was  'is  lordship  himself!"  exclaimed  the  guide,  scan 
dalized. 

"You  don't  say!"  drawled  our  fellow-countryman.  "I 
guess  I  owe  you  another  shilling,  my  friend." 

The  guide,  utterly  bewildered,  accepted  it.  The  trans 
atlantic  point  of  view  towards  the  nobility  was  beyond 
him. 

"His  lordship  could  make  a  nice  little  income  if  he  set 
up  as  a  side  show,"  added  the  Ohioan. 

Maude  giggled,  but  I  was  furious.  And  no  sooner  were 
we  outside  the  gates  than  I  declared  I  should  never  again 
enter  a  private  residence  by  the  back  door. 

"Why,  Hugh,  how  queer  you  are  sometimes,"  she  said. 

"I  may  be  queer,  but  I  have  a  sense  of  fitness,"  I  retorted. 

She  asserted  herself. 

"  I  can't  see  what  difference  it  makes.  They  didn't  know 
us.  And  if  they  admit  people  for  money — " 

"I  can't  help  it.     And  as  for  the  man  from  Ohio  — " 

"But  he  was  so  funny!"  she  interrupted.  "And  he  was 
really  very  nice." 

I  was  silent.  Her  point  of  view,  eminently  sensible  as  it 
was,  exasperated  me.  We  were  leaning  over  the  parapet  of 
a  little  stone  bridge.  Her  face  was  turned  away  from  me, 
but  presently  I  realized  that  she  was  crying.  Men  and 
women,  villagers,  passing  across  the  bridge,  looked  at  us 
curiously.  I  was  miserable,  and  somewhat  appalled ;  re 
sentful,  yet  striving  to  be  gentle  and  conciliatory.  I  assured 
her  that  she  was  talking  nonsense,  that  I  loved  her.  But  I 
did  not  really  love  her  at  that  moment ;  nor  did  she  relent 
as  easily  as  usual.  It  was  not  until  we  were  together  in  our 


248  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

sitting-room,  a  few  hours  later,  that  she  gave  in.  I  felt 
a  tremendous  sense  of  relief. 

"Hugh,  I'll  try  to  be  what  you  want.  You  know  I  am 
trying.  But  don't  kill  what  is  natural  in  me." 

I  was  touched  by  the  appeal,  and  repentant.  .  .  . 

It  is  impossible  to  say  when  the  little  worries,  annoy 
ances  and  disagreements  began,  when  I  first  felt  a  restless 
ness  creeping  over  me.  I  tried  to  hide  these  moods  from 
her,  but  always  she  divined  them.  And  yet  I  was  sure  that 
I  loved  Maude ;  in  a  surprisingly  short  period  I  had  become 
accustomed  to  her,  dependent  on  her  ministrations  and  the 
normal,  cosy  intimacy  of  our  companionship.  I  did  not  like 
to  think  that  the  keen  edge  of  the  enjoyment  of  possession 
was  wearing  a  little,  while  at  the  same  time  I  philosophized 
that  the  divine  fire,  when  legalized,  settles  down  to  a  comfort 
able  glow.  The  desire  to  go  home  that  grew  upon  me  I 
attributed  to  the  irritation  aroused  by  the  spectacle  of  a 
fixed  social  order  commanding  such  unquestioned  deference 
from  the  many  who  were  content  to  remain  resignedly 
outside  of  it.  Before  the  setting  in  of  the  Liberal  movement 
and  the  "American  invasion"  England  was  a  country  in 
which  (from  my  point  of  view)  one  must  be  "somebody" 
in  order  to  be  happy.  I  was  "somebody"  at  home;  or  at 
least  rapidly  becoming  so.  ... 

London  was  shrouded,  parliament  had  risen,  and  the  great 
houses  were  closed.  Day  after  day  we  issued  forth  from  a 
musty  and  highly  respectable  hotel  near  Piccadilly  to  a 
gloomy  Tower,  a  soggy  Hampton  Court  or  a  mournful 
British  Museum.  Our  native  longing  for  luxury  —  or  rather 
my  native  longing  —  impelled  me  to  abandon  Smith's  Hotel 
for  a  huge  hostelry  where  our  suite  overlooked  the  Thames, 
where  we  ran  across  a  man  I  had  known  slightly  at  Harvard, 
and  other  Americans  with  whom  we  made  excursions  and 
dined  and  went  to  the  theatre.  Maude  liked  these  persons ; 
I  did  not  find  them  especially  congenial.  My  life-long  habit 
of  unwillingness  to  accept  what  life  sent  in  its  ordinary  course 
was  asserting  itself ;  but  Maude  took  her  friends  as  she  found 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  249 

them,  and  I  was  secretly  annoyed  by  her  lack  of  discrimina 
tion.  In  addition  to  this,  the  sense  of  having  been  pulled 
up  by  the  roots  grew  upon  me. 

"Suppose,"  Maude  surprised  me  by  suggesting  one  morn 
ing  as  we  sat  at  breakfast  watching  the  river  craft  flit  like 
phantoms  through  the  yellow-green  fog  —  "  suppose  we  don't 
go  to  France,  after  all,  Hugh  ?  " 

"Not  go  to  France !"  I  exclaimed.  "Are  you  tired  of  the 
trip?" 

"Oh,  Hugh!"  Her  voice  caught.  "I  could  go  on,  al 
ways,  if  you  were  content." 

"  And  —  what  makes  you  think  that  I'm  not  content  ? " 

Her  smile  had  in  it  just  a  touch  of  wistfulness. 

"I  understand  you,  Hugh,  better  than  you  think.  You 
want  to  get  back  to  your  work,  and  —  and  I  should  be 
happier.  I'm  not  so  silly  and  so  ignorant  as  to  think  that 
I  can  satisfy  you  always.  And  I'd  like  to  get  settled  at 
home,  —  I  really  should." 

There  surged  up  within  me  a  feeling  of  relief.  I  seized 
her  hand  as  it  lay  on  the  table. 

"We'll  come  abroad  another  time,  and  go  to  France,"  I 
said.  "Maude,  you're  splendid  1" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not." 

"You  do  satisfy  me,"  I  insisted.  "It  isn't  that  at  all. 
But  I  think,  perhaps,  if'would  be  wiser  to  go  back.  It's 
rather  a  crucial  tune  with  me,  now  that  Mr.  Watling's  in 
Washington.  I've  just  arrived  at  a  position  where  I 
shall  be  able  to  make  a  good  deal  of  money,  and  later 
on- 

"  It  isn't  the  money,  Hugh,">  she  cried,  with  a  vehemence 
which  struck  me  as  a  little  odd.  "I  sometimes  think  we'd 
be  a  great  deal  happier  without  —  without  all  you  are  going 
to  make." 

I  laughed. 

"Well,  I  haven't  made  it  yet." 

She  possessed  the  frugality  of  the  Hutchinses.    And  some- 


250  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

times  my  lavishness  had  frightened  her,  as  when  we  had  taken 
the  suite  of  rooms  we  now  occupied. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  can  afford  them,  Hugh  ?  "  she  had  asked 
when  we  first  surveyed  them. 

IJbegan  married  life,  and  carried  it  on  without  giving  her 
any  conception  of  the  state  of  my  finances.  She  had  an 
allowance  from  the  first. 


As  the  steamer  slipped  westward  my  spirits  rose,  to  reach  a 
climax  of  exhilaration  when  I  saw  the  towers  of  New  York 
rise  gleaming  like  huge  stalagmites  in  the  early  winter  sun. 
Maude  likened  them  —  more  happily  —  to  gigantic  ivory 
chessmen.  Well,  New  York  was  America's  chessboard,  and 
the  Great  Players  had  already  begun  to  make  moves  that 
astonished  the  world.  As  we  sat  at  breakfast  in  a  Fifth 
Avenue  hotel  I  ran  my  eye  eagerly  over  the  stock-market 
reports  and  the  financial  news,  and  rallied  Maude  for  a  lack 
of  spirits. 

"Aren't  you  glad  to  be  home?"  I  asked  her,  as  we  sat  in 
a  hansom. 

"Of  course  I  am,  Hugh!"  she  protested.  "But  —  I 
can't  look  upon  New  York  as  home,  somehow.  It  frightens 
me." 

I  laughed  indulgently.  ,  . 

"You'll  get  used  to  it,"  I  said.  "We'll  be  coming  here  a 
great  deal,  off  and  on." 

She  was  silent.  But  later,  when  we  took  a  hansom  and 
entered  the  streams  of  traffic,  she  responded  to  the  stimulus 
of  the  place :  the  movement,  the  colour,  the  sight  of  the 
well-appointed  carriages,  of  the  well-fed,  well-groomed  people 
who  sat  in  them,  the  enticement  of  the  shops  in  which  we 
made  our  purchases  had  their  effect,  and  she  became  cheer 
ful  again.  .  .  . 

In  the  evening  we  took  the  "Limited"  for  home. 

We  lived  for  a  month  with  my  mother,  and  then  moved 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  251 

into  our  own  house.  It  was  one  which  I  had  rented  from 
Howard  Ogilvy,  and  it  stood  on  the  corner  of  Baker  and 
Clinton  streets,  near  that  fashionable  neighbourhood  called 
"the  Heights."  Ogilvy,  who  was  some  ten  years  older  than 
I,  and  who  belonged  to  one  of  our  old  families,  had  embarked 
on  a  career  then  becoming  common,  but  which  at  first  was 
regarded  as  somewhat  meteoric:  gradually  abandoning  the 
practice  of  law,  and  perceiving  the  possibilities  of  the  city 
of  his  birth,  he  had  "gambled"  in  real  estate  and  other  en 
terprises,  such  as  our  local  water  company,  until  he  had 
quadrupled  his  inheritance.  He  had  built  a  mansion  on 
Grant  Avenue,  the  wide  thoroughfare  bisecting  the  Heights. 
The  house  he  had  vacated  was  not  large,  but  essentially 
distinctive;  with  the  oddity  characteristic  of  the  revolt 
against  the  banal  architecture  of  the  80's.  The  curves  of 
the  tiled  roof  enfolded  the  upper  windows;  the  walls  were 
thick,  the  note  one  of  mystery.  I  remember  Maude's  naive 
delight  when  we  inspected  it. 

"You'd  never  guess  what  the  inside  was  like,  would  you, 
Hugh?"  she  cried. 

From  the  panelled  box  of  an  entrance  hall  one  went  up  a 
few  steps  to  a  drawing-room  which  had  a  bowed  recess  like 
an  oriel,  and  window-seats.  The  dining-room  was  an  odd 
shape,  and  was  wainscoted  in  oak ;  it  had  a  tiled  fireplace 
and  (according  to  Maude)  the  "sweetest"  china  closet  built 
into  the  wall.  There  was  a  "den"  for  me,  and  an  octagonal 
reception-room  on  the  corner.  Upstairs,  the  bedrooms  were 
quite  as  unusual,  the  plumbing  of  the  new  pattern,  heavy  and 
imposing.  Maude  expressed  the  air  of  seclusion  when  she 
exclaimed  that  she  could  almost  imagine  herself  in  one  of 
the  mediaeval  towns  we  had  seen  abroad. 

"It's  a  dream,  Hugh,"  she  sighed.  "But  —  do  you  think 
we  can  afford  it?"  .  .  . 

" This  house,"  I  announced,  smiling,  "is  only  a  stepping- 
stone  to  the  palace  I  intend  to  build  you  some  day." 

"I  don't  want  a  palace  1"  she  cried.  "I'd  rather  live  here, 
like  this,  always." 


252  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

A  certain  vehemence  in  her  manner  troubled  me.  I  was 
charmed  by  this  disposition  for  domesticity,  and  yet  I  shrank 
from  the  contemplation  of  its  permanency.  I  felt  vaguely, 
at  the  time,  the  possibility  of  a  future  conflict  of  tempera 
ments.  Maude  was  docile,  now.  But  would  she  remain 
docile  ?  and  was  it  in  her  nature  to  take  ultimately  the  posi 
tion  that  was  desirable  for  my  wife?  Well,  she  must  be 
i  moulded,  before  it  were  too  late.  Her  ultra-domestic  ten 
dencies  must  be  halted.  As  yet  blissfully  unaware  of  the 
inability  of  the  masculine  mind  to  fathom  the  subtleties  of 
feminine  relationships,  I  was  particularly  desirous  that 
Maude  and  Nancy  Durrett  should  be  intimates.  The  very 
day  after  our  arrival,  and  while  we  were  still  at  my  mother's, 
Nancy  called  on  Maude,  and  took  her  out  for  a  drive. 
Maude  told  me  of  it  when  I  came  home  from  the  office. 

"Dear  old  Nancy!"  I  said.     "I  know  you  liked  her." 

"Of  course,  Hugh.  I  should  like  her  for  your  sake,  any 
way.  She's  —  she's  one  of  your  oldest  and  best  friends." 

"But  I  want  you  to  like  her  for  her  own  sake." 

"I  think  I  shall,"  said  Maude.  She  was  so  scrupulously 
truthful !  "  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  her,  at  first." 

"Afraid  of  Nancy!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Well,  you  know,  she's  much  older  than  I.  I  think  she 
is  sweet.  But  she  knows  so  much  about  the  world  —  so 
much  that  she  doesn't  say.  I  can't  describe  it." 

I  smiled. 

"It's  only  her  manner.  You'll  get  used  to  that,  when 
you  know  what  she  really  is." 

"Oh,  I  hope  so,"  answered  Maude.  "I'm  very  anxious 
to  like  her  —  I  do  like  her.  But  it  takes  me  such  a  lot  of 
time  to  get  to  know  people." 

Nancy  asked  us  to  dinner. 

"I  want  to  help  Maude  all  I  can,  —  if  she'll  let  me," 
Nancy  said. 

"Why  shouldn't  she  let  you?"  I  asked. 

"She  may  not  like  me,"  Nancy  replied. 

"  Nonsense !"  I  exclaimed. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  253 

Nancy  smiled. 

"It  won't  be  my  fault,  at  any  rate,  if  she  doesn't,"  she 
said.  "  I  wanted  her  to  meet  at  first  just  the  right  people  — 
your  old  friends  and  a  few  others.  It  is  hard  for  a  woman 
—  especially  a  young  woman  —  coming  among  strangers." 
She  glanced  down  the  table  to  where  Maude  sat  talking  to 
Ham.  "She  has  an  air  about  her, — a  great  deal  of  self- 
possession." 

I,  too,  had  noticed  this,  with  pride  and  relief.  For  I 
knew  Maude  had  been  nervous. 

"You  are  luckier  than  you  deserve  to  be,"  Nancy  re 
minded  me.  "  But  I  hope  you  realize  that  she  has  a  mind 
of  her  own,  that  she  will  form  her  own  opinions  of  people, 
independently  of  you." 

I  must  have  betrayed  the  fact  that  I  was  a  little  startled, 
for  the  remark  came  as  a  confirmation  of  what  I  had  dimly 
felt. 

"Of  course  she  has,"  I  agreed,  somewhat  lamely.  "Every 
woman  has,  who  is  worth  her  salt." 

Nancy's  smile  bespoke  a  knowledge  that  seemed  to  tran 
scend  my  own. 

"You  do  like  her?"  I  demanded. 

"  I  like  her  very  much  indeed,"  said  Nancy,  a  little  gravely. 
"She's  simple,  she's  real,  she  has  that  which  so  few  of  us 
possess  nowadays  —  character.  But  —  I've  got  to  be  pre 
pared  for  the  possibility  that  she  may  not  get  along  with 
me." 

"Why  not?"  I  demanded. 

"There  you  are  again,  with  your  old  unwillingness  to 
analyze  a  situation  and  face  it.  For  heaven's  sake,  now 
that  you  have  married  her,  study  her.  Don't  take  her  for 
granted.  Can't  you  see  that  she  doesn't  care  for  the  things 
that  amuse  me,  that  make  my  life  ? " 

"  Of  course,  if  you  insist  on  making  yourself  out  a  hardened, 
sophisticated  woman — "  I  protested.  But  she  shook  her 
head. 

"Her  roots  are  deeper,  —  she  is  in  touch,  though  she  may 


254  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

not  realize  it,  with  the  fundamentals.  She  is  one  of  those 
women  who  are  race-makers." 

Though  somewhat  perturbed,  I  was  struck  by  the  phrase. 
And  I  lost  sight  of  Nancy's  generosity.  She  looked  me  full 
in  the  face. 

"I  wonder  whether  you  can  rise  to  her,"  she  said.  "If 
I  were  you,  I  should  try.  You  will  be  happier  —  far  happier 
than  if  you  attempt  to  use  her  for  your  own  ends,  as  a  con 
tributor  to  your  comfort  and  an  auxiliary  to  your  career.  I 
was  afraid  —  I  confess  it  —  that  you  had  married  an  as 
piring,  simpering  and  empty-headed  provincial  like  that 
Mrs.  George  Hutchins,  whom  I  met  once,  and  who  would 
sell  her  soul  to  be  at  my  table.  Well,  you  escaped  that, 
and  you  may  thank  God  for  it.  You've  got  a  chance,  think 
it  over." 

"A  chance!"  I  repeated,  though  I  gathered  something  of 
her  meaning. 

"Think  it  over,"  said  Nancy  again.     And  she  smiled. 

"But  —  do  you  want  me  to  bury  myself  in  domesticity?" 
I  demanded,  without  grasping  the  significance  of  my  words. 

"You'll  find  her  reasonable,  I  think.  You've  got  a  chance 
now,  Hugh.  Don't  spoil  it." 

She  turned  to  Leonard  Dickinson,  who  sat  on  her  other 
side.  .  .  . 

When  we  got  home  I  tried  to  conceal  my  anxiety  as  to 
Maude's  impressions  of  the  evening.  I  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
remarked  that  the  dinner  had  been  a  success. 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  been  wondering  all  evening?" 
Maude  asked.  "Why  you  didn't  marry  Nancy  instead  of 
me." 

"Well,"  I  replied,  "it  just  didn't  come  off.  And  Nancy 
was  telling  me  at  dinner  how  fortunate  I  was  to  have  married 

you." 

Maude  passed  this. 

"I  can't  see  why  she  accepted  Hambleton  Durrett.  It 
seems  horrible  that  such  a  woman  as  she  is  could  have  mar 
ried  —  just  for  money." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  255 

"Nancy  has  an  odd  streak  in  her,"  I  said.  "But  then  — 
we  all  have  odd  streaks.  She's  the  best  friend  in  the  world, 
when  she  is  your  friend." 

"I'm  sure  of  it,"  Maude  agreed,  with  a  little  note  of 
penitence. 

"You  enjoyed  it,"  I  ventured  cautiously. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  agreed.  "And  everyone  was  so  nice  to 
me  —  for  your  sake  of  course." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous  1"  I  said.  "I  shan't  tell  you  what 
Nancy  and  the  others  said  about  you." 

Maude  had  the  gift  of  silence. 

"What  a  beautiful  house!"  she  sighed  presently.  "I 
know  you'll  think  me  silly,  but  so  much  luxury  as  that 
frightens  me  a  little.  In  England,  in  those  places  we  saw, 
it  seemed  natural  enough,  but  in  America  — !  And  they  — 
all  your  friends  —  seem  to  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"There's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  have  beautiful 
things  and  well  served  dinners,  too,  if  we  have  the  money 
to  pay  for  them." 

"I  suppose  not,"  she  agreed,  absently. 


XV 


THAT  winter  many  other  entertainments  were  given  in  our 
honour.  But  the  conviction  grew  upon  me  that  Maude  had 
no  real  liking  for  the  social  side  of  life,  that  she  acquiesced  in 
it  only  on  my  account.  Thus,  at  the  very  outset  of  our 
married  career,  an  irritant  developed :  signs  of  it,  indeed, 
were  apparent  from  the  first,  when  we  were  preparing  the 
house  we  had  rented  for  occupancy.  Hurrying  away  from 
my  office  at  odd  times  to  furniture  and  department  stores 
to  help  decide  such  momentous  questions  as  curtains,  carpets, 
chairs  and  tables  I  would  often  spy  the  tall,  uncompromising 
figure  of  Susan  Peters  standing  beside  Maude's,  while  an 
obliging  clerk  spread  out,  anxiously,  rugs  or  wall-papers  for 
their  inspection. 

"Why  don't  you  get  Nancy  to  help  you,  too?"  I  ventured 
to  ask  her  once. 

"Ours  is  such  a  little  house  —  compared  to  Nancy's, 
Hugh." 

My  attitude  towards  Susan  had  hitherto  remained  unde 
fined.  She  was  Tom's  wife  and  Tom's  affair.  In  spite  of 
her  marked  disapproval  of  the  modern  trend  in  business  and 
social  life,  —  a  prejudice  she  had  communicated  to  Tom,  — 
as  a  bachelor  I  had  not  disliked  her ;  and  it  was  certain  that 
these  views  had  not  mitigated  Tom's  loyalty  and  affection 
for  me.  Susan  had  been  my  friend,  as  had  her  brother  Perry, 
and  Lucia,  Perry's  wife:  they  made  no  secret  of  the  fact 
that  they  deplored  in  me  what  they  were  pleased  to  call  plu 
tocratic  obsessions,  nor  had  their  disapproval  always  been 
confined  to  badinage.  Nancy,  too,  they  looked  upon  as  a 
renegade.  I  was  able  to  bear  their  reproaches  with  the  supe- 

256 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  257 

rior  good  nature  that  springs  from  success,  to  point  out  why 
the  American  tradition  to  which  they  so  fatuously  clung  was 
a  thingtof  the  past.  The  habit  of  taking  dinner  with  them 
at  least  once  a  week  had  continued,  and  their  arguments 
rather  amused  me.  If  they  chose  to  dwell  in  a  backwater 
out  of  touch  with  the  current  of  great  affairs,  this  was  a 
matter  to  be  deplored,  but  I  did  not  feel  strongly  enough  to 
resent  it.  So  long  as  I  remained  a  bachelor  the  relationship 
had  not  troubled  me,  but  now  that  I  was  married  I  began  to 
consider  with  some  alarm  its  power  to  affect  my  welfare. 

It  had  remained  for  Nancy  to  inform  me  that  I  had  mar 
ried  a  woman  with  a  mind  of  her  own.  I  had  flattered  my 
self  that  I  should  be  able  to  control  Maude,  to  govern  her 
predilections,  and  now  at  the  very  beginning  of  our  married 
life  she  was  showing  a  disquieting  tendency  to  choose  for 
herself.  To  be  sure,  she  had  found  my  intimacy  with  the 
Peterses  and  Blackwoods  already  formed ;  but  it  was  an 
intimacy  from  which  I  was  growing  away.  I  should  not 
have  quarrelled  with  her  if  she  had  not  discriminated  :  Nancy 
made  overtures,  and  Maude  drew  back;  Susan  presented 
herself,  and  with  annoying  perversity  and  in  an  extraordi 
narily  brief  time  Maude  had  become  her  intimate.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  she  was  always  at  Susan's,  lunching  or  playing 
with  the  children,  who  grew  devoted  to  her ;  or  with  Susan, 
choosing  carpets  and  clothes;  while  more  and  more  fre 
quently  we  dined  with  the  Peterses  and  the  Blackwoods,  or 
they  with  us.  With  Perry's  wife  Maude  was  scarcely  less 
intimate  than  with  Susan.  This  was  the  more  surprising  to 
me  since  Lucia  Blackwood  was  a  dyed-in-the-wool  "  intellect 
ual,"  a  graduate  of  Radcliffe,  the  daughter  of  a  Harvard 
professor.  Perry  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  during  her  visit 
to  Susan.  Lucia  was,  perhaps,  the  most  influential  of  the 
group ;  she  scorned  the  world,  she  held  strong  views  on  the 
higher  education  of  women ;  she  had  long  discarded  ortho 
doxy  for  what  may  be  called  a  Cambridge  stoicism  of  simple 
living  and  high  thinking ;  while  Maude  was  a  strict  Presby 
terian,  and  not  in  the  least  given  to  theories.  When,  some 


258  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

months  after  our  home-coming,  I  ventured  to  warn  her  gently 
of  the  dangers  of  confining  one's  self  to  a  coterie  —  especially 
one  of  such  narrow  views — her  answer  was  rather  bewilder 
ing. 

"But  isn't  Tom  your  best  friend?"  she  asked. 

I  admitted  that  he  was. 

"And  you  always  went  there  such  a  lot  before  we  were 
married." 

This,  too,  was  undeniable.  "At  the  same  time,"  I  replied, 
"I  have  other  friends.  I'm  fond  of  the  Blackwoods  and  the 
Peterses,  I'm  not  advocating  seeing  less  of  them,  but  their 
point  of  view,  if  taken  without  any  antidote,  is  rather  nar 
rowing.  We  ought  to  see  all  kinds,"  I  suggested,  with  a  fine 
restraint. 

"You  mean  —  more  worldly  people,"  she  said  with  her 
disconcerting  directness. 

"Not  necessarily  worldly,"  I  struggled  on.  "People  who 
know  more  of  the  world  —  yes,  who  understand  it  better." 

Maude  sighed. 

"  I  do  try,  Hugh,  —  I  return  their  calls,  —  I  do  try  to  be 
nice  to  them.  But  somehow  I  don't  seem  to  get  along  with 
them  easily  —  I'm  not  myself,  they  make  me  shy.  It's 
because  I'm  provincial." 

"Nonsense!"  I  protested,  "you're  not  a  bit  provincial." 
And  it  was  true ;  her  dignity  and  self-possession  redeemed 
her. 

Nancy  was  not  once  mentioned.  But  I  think  she  was  in 
both  our  minds.  .  .  . 

Since  my  marriage,  too,  I  had  begun  to  resent  a  little  the 
attitude  of  Tom  and  Susan  and  the  Blackwoods  of  humor 
ous  yet  affectionate  tolerance  toward  my  professional  activ 
ities  and  financial  creed,  though  Maude  showed  no  disposi 
tion  to  take  this  seriously.  I  did  suspect,  however,  that 
they  were  more  and  more  determined  to  rescue  Maude  from 
what  they  would  have  termed  a  frivolous  career;  and  on 
one  of  these  occasions  —  so  exasperating  in  married  life  — 
when  a  slight  cause  for  pique  tempts  husband  or  wife  to  try 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  259 

a  case  before  a  friendly  jury,  Maude  remarked  at  the  dinner- 
table  that  I  thought  she  ought  to  go  out  more  than  she  did. 
I  have  forgotten  the  conversation  that  went  before. 

"That's  right,  don't  let  him  turn  you  into  a  society  doll," 
Perry  put  in.  "You  were  created  for  something  better." 

I  was  furious,  but  I  repressed  my  temper  until  Maude  and 
I  were  alone. 

"Why,  Perry  only  said  that  in  fun!"  she  exclaimed  in 
surprise. 

"I  don't  care  to  be  made  an  idiot  of,"  I  said.  "Perry  has 
an  idea  that  all  wisdom  will  die  with  him.  Of  course,  if  you 
prefer  his  way  of  looking  at  things  — " 

"But  I  don't,  Hugh.  How  can  you  be  so  cruel  and  unjust 
—  and  silly?" 

"Apparently  you  attach  more  importance  to  his  views  and 
Susan's  and  Lucia's  than  to  mine." 

She  gazed  at  me  for  a  moment  with  widened  eyes,  a* 
though  I  had  suddenly  become  a  stranger.  And  then,  falling; 
into  a  chair,  burst  into  weeping. 

"Oh,  I  know  I'm  a  failure !"  I  heard  her  cry,  convulsively.. 
"  I'm  not  what  you  want  —  I  can't  ever  be  what  you  want  t 
You  really  don't  care  for  me.  Why  did  you  marry  me?" 

I  was  appalled,  yet  for  the  instant  my  exasperation  wast 
rather  heightened  by  this  enigmatic  result.  I  paced  up  and 
down  the  room,  drew  aside  the  curtain  and  gazed  out  at  the 
arc-lights  on  the  street,  and  then  back  at  her.  The  sobbing 
continued.  Presently  I  went  over  and  laid  my  hand  on*. her 
shoulder.  For  the  first  tune  she  shrank  from  my  touch. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Maude." 

Pressing  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  she  fairly  ran  out 
of  the  room  and  up  the  stairs.  I  heard  her  close  the  bedroom 
door  after  her,  and  turn  the  key  in  the  lock.  I  went  to  my 
study,  and  began  to  go  over  some  papers  I  had  brought  home- 
with  me ;  trying,  and  at  first  succeeding  in  exerting  a  power 
which  for  many  years  I  had  cultivated  of  shutting  out  all 
disturbing  human  relationships,  of  suppressing  my  feelings. 
But  presently  my  attention  to  the  work  relaxed,  and  I  began 


260  A  FAR   COUNTRY 

to  ask  myself  whether  this  affair  were  only  a  squall,  some 
thing  to  be  looked  for  once  in  a  while  on  the  seas  of  matrimony, 
and  weathered :  or  whether  Maude  had  not,  after  all,  been 
right  when  she  declared  that  I  had  made  a  mistake,  and  that 
we  were  not  fitted  for  one  another?  In  this  gloomy  view 
endless  years  of  incompatibility  stretched  ahead ;  and  for 
the  first  time  I  began  to  rehearse  with  a  certain  cold  detach 
ment  the  chain  of  apparently  accidental  events  which  had 
led  up  to  my  marriage :  to  consider  the  gradual  blindness 
that  had  come  over  my  faculties;  and  finally  to  wonder 
whether  judgment  ever  entered  into  sexual  selection.  Would 
Maude  have  relapsed  into  this  senseless  fit  if  she  had  realized 
how  fortunate  she  was?  For  I  was  prepared  to  give  her 
what  thousands  of  women  longed  for,  position  and  influence. 
My  resentment  rose  again  against  Perry  and  Tom,  and  I 
began  to  attribute  their  lack  of  appreciation  of  my  achieve 
ments  to  jealousy.  They  had  not  my  ability ;  this  was  the 
long  and  short  of  it.  ...  I  pondered  also,  regretfully,  on 
my  bachelor  days.  And  for  the  first  time,  I,  who  had  worked 
so  hard  to  achieve  freedom,  felt  the  pressure  of  the  yoke  I  had 
fitted  over  my  own  shoulders.  I  had  voluntarily,  though 
unwittingly,  returned  to  slavery.  This  was  what  had 
happened.  And  what  was  to  be  done  about  it?  I  would 
not  consider  divorce. 

Well,  I  should  have  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Whether 
this  conclusion  brought  on  a  mood  of  reaction,  I  am  unable 
to  say.  I  was  still  annoyed  by  what  seemed  to  the  mascu 
line  mind  a  senseless  and  dramatic  performance  on  Maude's 
part,  an  incomprehensible  case  of  "nerves."  Nevertheless, 
there  stole  into  my  mind  many  recollections  of  Maude's 
affection,  many  passages  between  us ;  and  my  eye  chanced 
to  fall  on  the  ink-well  she  had  bought  me  out  of  the  allowance 
I  gave  her.  An  unanticipated  pity  welled  up  within  me  for 
her  loneliness,  her  despair  in  that  room  upstairs.  I  got  up 
—  and  hesitated.  A  counteracting,  inhibiting  wave  passed 
through  me.  I  hardened.  I  began  to  walk  up  and  down, 
.a  prey  to  conflicting  impulses.  Something  whispered,  "go 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  261 

to  her" ;  another  voice  added,  "for  your  own  peace  of  mind, 
at  any  rate."  I  rejected  the  intrusion  of  this  motive  as  un 
worthy,  turned  out  the  light  and  groped  my  way  upstairs. 
The  big  clock  in  the  hall  struck  twelve. 

I  listened  outside  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  but  all  was 
silent  within.  I  knocked. 

"Maude !"  I  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

There  was  no  response. 

"Maude  —  let  me  in !  I  didn't  mean  to  be  unkind  —  I'm 
sorry." 

After  an  interval  I  heard  her  say :  "  I'd  rather  stay  here, 
—  to-night." 

But  at  length,  after  more  entreaty  and  self-abasement  on 
my  part,  she  opened  the  door.  The  room  was  dark.  We 
sat  down  together  on  the  window-seat,  and  all  at  once  she 
relaxed  and  her  head  fell  on  my  shoulder,  and  she  began 
weeping  again.  I  held  her,  the  alternating  moods  still 
running  through  me. 

"Hugh,"  she  said  at  length,  "how  could  you  be  so  cruel? 
when  you  know  I  love  you  and  would  do  anything  for  you." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  be  cruel,  Maude,"  I  answered. 

"  I  know  you  didn't.  But  at  times  you  seem  so  —  indif 
ferent,  and  you  can't  understand  how  it  hurts.  I  haven't 
anybody  but  you,  now,  and  it's  in  your  power  to  make  me 
happy  or  —  or  miserable." 

Later  on  I  tried  to  explain  my  point  of  view,  to  justify 
myself. 

"  All  I  mean,"  I  concluded  at  length,  "  is  that  my  position 
is  a  little  different  from  Perry's  and  Tom's.  They  can  afford 
to  isolate  themselves,  but  I'm  thrown  professionally  with  the 
men  who  are  building  up  this  city.  Some  of  them,  like 
Ralph  Hambleton  and  Mr.  Ogilvy,  I've  known  all  my  life. 
Life  isn't  so  simple  for  us,  Maude  —  we  can't  ignore  the 
social  side." 

"  I  understand,"  she  said  contentedly.  "You  are  more  of  a 
man  of  affairs  —  much  more  than  Tom  or  Perry,  and  you 
have  greater  responsibilities  and  wider  interests.  I'm  really 


262  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

very  proud  of  you.    Only  —  don't  you  think  you  are  a  little 
too  sensitive  about  yourself,  when  you  are  teased  ?  " 
I  let  this  pass.  .  .  . 


I  give  a  paragraph  from  a  possible  biography  of  Hugh 
Paret  which,  as  then  seemed  not  improbable,  might  in  the 
future  have  been  written  by  some  aspiring  young  worshipper 
of  success. 

"On  his  return  from  a  brief  but  delightful  honeymoon  in 
England  Mr.  Paret  took  up  again,  with  characteristic  vigour, 
the  practice  of  the  law.  He  was  entering  upon  the  prune 
years  of  manhood ;  golden  opportunities  confronted  him  — 
as,  indeed,  they  confronted  other  men  —  but  Paret  had  the 
foresight  to  take  advantage  of  them.  And  his  training  under 
Theodore  Watling  was  now  to  produce  results.  .  .  .  The 
reputations  had  already  been  made  of  some  of  that  remark 
able  group  of  financial  geniuses  who  were  chiefly  instrumental 
in  bringing  about  the  industrial  evolution  begun  after  the 
•Civil  War :  at  the  same  time,  as  is  well  known,  a  political 
leadership  developed  that  gave  proof  of  a  deplorable  blind 
ness  to  the  logical  necessity  of  combinations  in  business. 
The  lawyer  with  initiative  and  brains  became  an  indispen 
sable  factor,"  etc.,  etc. 

The  biography  might  have  gone  on  to  relate  my  association 
with  and  important  services  to  Adolf  Scherer  in  connection 
with  his  constructive  dream.  Shortly  after  my  return  from 
abroad,  in  answer  to  his  summons,  I  found  him  at  Heinrich's, 
his  napkin  tucked  into  his  shirt  front,  and  a  dish  of  his  fa 
vourite  sausages  before  him. 

"So,  the  honeymoon  is  over!"  he  said,  and  pressed  my 
hand.  "You  are  right  to  come  back  to  business,  and  after 
a  while  you  can  have  another  honeymoon,  eh  ?  I  have  had 
many  since  I  married.  And  how  long  do  you  think  was  my 
first?  A  day !  I  was  a  foreman  then,  and  the  wedding  was 
at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  We  went  into  the  country, 
the  wife  and  I." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  263 

He  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  possessed  by  the  memory. 
"  I  have  grown  rich  since,  and  we've  been  to  Europe  and  back 
to  Germany,  and  travelled  on  the  best  ships  and  stayed  at 
the  best  hotels,  but  I  never  enjoyed  a  holiday  more  than  that 
day.  It  wasn't  long  afterwards  I  went  to  Mr.  Durrett  and 
told  him  how  he  could  save  much  money.  He  was  always 
ready  to  listen,  Mr.  Durrett,  when  an  employee  had  any 
thing  to  say.  He  was  a  big  man,  —  an  iron-master.  Ah, 
he  would  be  astonished  if  only  he  could  wake  up  now!" 

"He  would  not  only  have  to  be  an  iron-master,"  I  agreed, 
"but  a  financier  and  a  railroad  man  to  boot." 

"A  jack  of  all  trades,"  laughed  Mr.  Scherer.  "That's 
what  we  are  —  men  in  my  position.  Well,  it  was  compara 
tively  simple  then,  when  we  had  no  Sherman  law  and  crazy 
statutes,  such  as  some  of  the  states  are  passing,  to  bother  us. 
What  has  got  into  the  politicians,  that  they  are  indulging  in 
such  foolishness?"  he  exclaimed,  more  warmly.  "We  try  to 
build  up  a  trade  for  this  country,  and  they're  doing  their 
best  to  tie  our  hands  and  tear  it  down.  When  I  was  in 
Washington  the  other  day  I  was  talking  with  one  of  those 
Western  senators  whose  state  has  passed  those  laws.  He 
said  to  me,  'Mr.  Scherer,  I've  been  making  a  study  of  the 
Boyne  Iron  Works.  You  are  clever  men,  but  you  are  build 
ing  up  monopolies  which  we  propose  to  stop.'  'By  what 
means?'  I  asked.  'Rebates,  for  one,'  said  he,  'you  get 
preferential  rates  from  your  railroad  which  give  you  advan 
tages  over  your  competitors.'  Foolishness!"  Mr.  Scherer 
exclaimed.  "I  tell  him  the  railroad  is  a  private  concern,, 
built  up  by  private  enterprise,  and  it  has  a  right  to  make 
special  rates  for  large  shippers.  No,  —  railroads  are  public 
carriers  with  no  right  to  make  special  rates.  I  ask  him  what 
else  he  objects  to,  and  he  says  patented  processes.  As  if  we 
don't  have  a  right  to  our  own  patents !  We  buy  them.  / 
buy  them,  when  other  steel  companies  won't  touch  'em. 
What  is  that  but  enterprise,  and  business  foresight,  and 
taking  risks?  And  then  he  begins  to  talk  about  the  tariff 
taking  money  out  of  the  pockets  of  American  consumera 


264  A  FAR  COUNTRY 


and  making  men  like  me  rich.  I  have  come  to  Washington 
to  get  the  tariff  raised  on  steel  rails ;  and  Watling  and  other 
senators  we  send  down  there  are  raising  it  for  us.  We  are 
building  up  monopolies !  Well,  suppose  we  are.  We  can't 
help  it,  even  if  we  want  to.  Has  he  ever  made  a  study  of 
the  other  side  of  the  question  —  the  competition  side  ?  Of 
course  he  hasn't." 

He  brought  down  his  beer  mug  heavily  on  the  table.  In 
tunes  of  excitement  his  speech  suggested  the  German  idiom. 
Abruptly  his  air  grew  mysterious;  he  glanced  around  the 
room,  now  becoming  empty,  and  lowered  his  voice. 

"I  have  been  thinking  a  long  time,  I  have  a  little  scheme," 
he  said,  "  and  I  have  been  to  Washington  to  see  Watling,  to 
talk  over  it.  Well,  he  thinks  much  of  you.  Fowndes  and 
Ripon  are  good  lawyers,  but  they  are  not  smart  like  you. 
See  Paret,  he  says,  and  he  can  come  down  and  talk  to  me. 
So  I  ask  you  to  come  here.  That  is  why  I  say  you  are 
wise  to  get  home.  Honeymoons  can  wait  —  eh?" 

I  smiled  appreciatively. 

"They  talk  about  monopoly,  those  Populist  senators,  but 
I  ask  you  what  is  a  man  in  my  place  to  do?  If  you  don't 
eat,  somebody  eats  you  —  is  it  not  so  ?  Like  the  boa-con 
strictors  —  that  is  modern  business.  Look  at  the  Keystone 
Plate  people,  over  there  at  Morris.  For  years  we  sold  them 
steel  billets  from  which  to  make  their  plates,  and  three  months 
ago  they  serve  notice  on  us  that  they  are  getting  ready  to  make 
their  own  billets,  they  buy  mines  north  of  the  lakes  and  are 
building  their  plant.  Here  is  a  big  customer  gone.  Next 
year,  maybe,  the  Empire  Tube  Company  goes  into  the  bus 
iness  of  making  crude  steel,  and  many  more  thousands  of 
tons  go  from  us.  What  is  left  for  us,  Paret?" 

"Obviously  you've  got  to  go  into  the  tube  and  plate 
business  yourselves,"  I  said. 

"So !"  cried  Mr.  Scherer,  triumphantly,  "  or  it  is  close  up. 
We  are  not  fools,  no,  we  will  not  lie  down  and  be  eaten  like 
lambs  for  any  law.  Dickinson  can  put  his  hand  on  the  cap 
ital,  and  I  —  I  have  already  bought  a  tract  on  the  lakes,  at 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  265 

Bolivar,  I  have  already  got  a  plant  designed  with  the  latest 
modern  machinery.  I  can  put  the  ore  right  there,  I  can 
send  the  coke  back  from  here  in  cars  which  would  otherwise 
be  empty,  and  manufacture  tubes  at  eight  dollars  a  ton  less 
than  they  are  selling.  If  we  can  make  tubes  we  can  make 
plates,  and  if  we  can  make  plates  we  can  make  boilers,  and 
beams  and  girders  and  bridges.  ...  It  is  not  like  it  was  — 
but  where  is  it  all  leading,  my  friend  ?  The  time  will  come 
—  is  right  on  us  now,  in  respect  to  many  products  —  when 
the  market  will  be  flooded  with  tubes  and  plates  and  girders, 
and  then  we'll  have  to  find  a  way  to  limit  production.  And 
the  inefficient  mills  will  all  be  forced  to  shut  down." 

The  logic  seemed  unanswerable,  even  had  I  cared  to  answer 
it.  ...  He  unfolded  his  campaign.  The  Boyne  Iron  Works 
was  to  become  the  Boyne  Iron  Works,  Ltd.,  owner  of  various 
subsidiary  companies,  some  of  which  were  as  yet  blissfully  ig 
norant  of  their  fate.  All  had  been  thought  out  as  calmly  as  the 
partition  of  Poland  —  only,  lawyers  were  required ;  and  ulti 
mately,  after  the  process  of  acquisition  should  have  been  com 
pleted,  a  delicate  document  was  to  be  drawn  up  which  would 
pass  through  the  meshes  of  that  annoying  statutory  net,  the 
Sherman  Anti-trust  Law.  New  mines  were  to  be  purchased, 
extending  over  a  certain  large  area;  wide  coal  deposits; 
little  strips  of  railroad  to  tap  them.  The  competition  of  the 
Keystone  Plate  people  was  to  be  met  by  acquiring  and  bring 
ing  up  to  date  the  plate  mills  of  King  and  Son,  over  the  bor 
ders  of  a  sister  state;  the  Somersworth  Bridge  and  Con 
struction  Company  and  the  Gring  Steel  and  Wire  Company 
were  to  be  absorbed.  When  all  of  this  should  have  been 
accomplished,  there  would  be  scarcely  a  process  in  the  steel 
industry,  from  the  smelting  of  the  ore  to  the  completion  of  a 
bridge,  which  the  Boyne  Iron  Works  could  not  undertake. 
Such  was  the  beginning  of  the  "lateral  extension"  period. 

"Two  can  play  at  that  game,"  Mr.  Scherer  said.  "And 
if  those  fellows  could  only  be  content  to  let  well  enough 
alone,  to  continue  buying  their  crude  steel  from  us,  there 
wouldn't  be  any  trouble."  .  .  . 


266  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

It  was  evident,  however,  that  he  really  welcomed  the 
*f  trouble,"  that  he  was  going  into  battle  with  enthusiasm. 
He  had  already  picked  out  his  points  of  attack  and  was 
marching  on  them.  Life,  for  him,  would  have  been  a  poor 
thing  without  new  conflicts  to  absorb  his  energy ;  and  he  had 
already  made  of  the  Boyne  Iron  Works,  with  its  open- 
hearth  furnaces,  a  marvel  of  modern  efficiency  that  had 
opened  the  eyes  of  the  Steel  world,  and  had  drawn  the  atten 
tion  of  a  Personality  in  New  York,  —  a  Personality  who 
was  one  of  the  new  and  dominant  type  that  had  developed 
with  such  amazing  rapidity,  the  banker-dinosaur ;  preying 
upon  and  superseding  the  industrial-dinosaur,  conquering 
type  of  the  preceding  age,  builder  of  the  railroads,  mills 
and  manufactories.  The  banker-dinosaurs,  the  gigantic 
ones,  were  in  Wall  Street,  and  strove  among  themselves 
for  the  industrial  spoils  accumulated  by  their  predecessors. 
It  was  characteristic  of  these  monsters  that  they  never  fought 
in  the  open  unless  they  were  forced  to.  Then  the  earth 
rocked,  huge  economic  structures  tottered  and  fell,  and  much 
<dust  arose  to  obscure  the  vision  of  smaller  creatures,  who  were 
bewildered  and  terrified.  Such  disturbances  were  called 
"panics,"  and  were  blamed  by  the  newspapers  on  the  Dem 
ocratic  party,  or  on  the  reformers  who  had  wantonly  as 
sailed  established  institutions.  These  dominant  bankers 
had  contrived  to  gain  control  of  the  savings  of  thousands 
and  thousands  of  fellow-citizens  who  had  deposited  them  in 
banks  or  paid  them  into  insurance  companies,  and  with  the 
power  thus  accumulated  had  sallied  forth  to  capture  rail 
roads  and  industries.  The  railroads  were  the  strategic 
links.  With  these  in  hand,  certain  favoured  industrial  con 
cerns  could  be  fed,  and  others  starved  into  submission. 

Adolf  Scherer  might  be  said  to  represent  a  transitional 
type.  For  he  was  not  only  an  iron-master  who  knew  every 
detail  of  his  business,  who  kept  it  ahead  of  the  times;  he 
was  also  a  strategist,  wise  in  his  generation,  making  friends 
with  the  Railroad  while  there  had  yet  been  time,  at  length 
securing  rebates  and  favours.  And  when  that  Railroad 


"REBATES  FOR  ONE,"  SAID  HE.    "You  GET  PREFERENTIAL  RATES  FROM  YOUR 

RAILROAD   WHICH  GIVE  YOU  ADVANTAGES   OVER  YOUR  COMPETITORS." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  267 

(which  had  been  constructed  through  the  enterprise  and 
courage  of  such  men  as  Nathaniel  Durrett)  had  passed  under 
the  control  of  the  banker-personality  to  whom  I  have  re 
ferred,  and  had  become  part  of  a  system,  Adolf  Scherer  re 
mained  in  alliance,  and  continued  to  receive  favours.  ...  I 
can  well  remember  the  time  when  the  ultimate  authority 
of  our  Railroad  was  transferred,  quietly,  to  Wall  Street. 
Alexander  Barbour,  its  president,  had  been  a  great  man, 
but  after  that  he  bowed,  in  certain  matters,  to  a  greater  one. 

I  have  digressed.  .  .  .  Mr.  Scherer  unfolded  his  scheme, 
talking  about  "  units"  as  calmly  as  though  they  were  checkers 
on  a  board  instead  of  huge,  fiery,  reverberating  mills  where 
thousands  and  thousands  of  human  beings  toiled  day  and  night 
—  beings  with  families,  and  hopes  and  fears,  whose  destinies 
were  to  be  dominated  by  the  will  of  the  man  who  sat  opposite 
me.  But — did  not  he  in  his  own  person  represent  the  triumph 
of  that  American  creed  of  opportunity?  He,  too,  had  been 
through  the  fire,  had  sweated  beside  the  blasts,  had  handled 
the  ingots  of  steel.  He  was  one  of  the  "fittest"  who  had 
survived,  and  looked  it.  Had  he  no  memories  of  the  terrors 
of  that  struggle?  .  .  .  Adolf  Scherer  had  grown  to  be  a 
giant.  And  yet  without  me,  without  my  profession  he  was 
a  helpless  giant,  at  the  mercy  of  those  alert  and  vindictive 
lawmakers  who  sought  to  restrain  and  hamper  him,  to 
check  his  growth  with  their  webs.  How  stimulating  the 
idea  of  his  dependence !  How  exhilarating  too,  the  thought 
that  that  vision  which  had  first  possessed  me  as  an  under 
graduate  —  on  my  visit  to  Jerry  Kyme  —  was  at  last  to  be 
realized !  I  had  now  become  the  indispensable  associate  of 
the  few  who  divided  the  spoils,  I  was  to  have  a  share  in  these 
myself. 

"You're  young,  Paret,"  Mr.  Scherer  concluded.  "But 
Watling  has  confidence  in  you,  and  you  will  consult  him 
frequently.  I  believe  in  the  young  men,  and  I  have  already 
seen  something  of  you  —  so  ?  "  .  .  . 

When  I  returned  to  the  office  I  wrote  Theodore  Watling 
a  letter  expressing  my  gratitude  for  the  position  he  had,  so 


268  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

to  speak,  willed  me,  of  confidential  legal  adviser  to  Adolf 
Scherer.  Though  the  opportunity  had  thrust  itself  upon 
me  suddenly,  and  sooner  than  I  expected  it,  I  was  determined 
to  prove  myself  worthy  of  it.  I  worked  as  I  had  never 
worked  before,  making  trips  to  New  York  to  consult  leading 
members  of  this  new  branch  of  my  profession  there,  trips  to 
Washington  to  see  my  former  chief.  There  were,  too,  numer 
ous  conferences  with  local  personages,  with  Mr.  Dickinson 
and  Mr.  Grierson,  and  Judah  B.  Tallant,  — whose  newspaper 
was  most  useful ;  there  were  consultations  and  negotiations 
of  a  delicate  nature  with  the  owners  and  lawyers  of  other 
companies  to  be  "taken  in."  Nor  was  it  all  legal  work,  — 
in  the  older  and  narrower  sense.  Men  who  are  playing  for 
principalities  are  making  war.  Some  of  our  operations  had 
all  the  excitement  of  war.  There  was  information  to  be 
got,  and  it  was  got  —  somehow.  Modern  war  involves 
a  spy  system,  and  a  friendly  telephone  company  is  not  to 
be  despised.  And  all  of  this  work  from  first  to  last  had  to 
be  done  with  extreme  caution.  Moribund  distinctions  of 
right  and  wrong  did  not  trouble  me,  for  the  modern  man 
labours  religiously  when  he  knows  that  Evolution  is  on  his 
side. 


For  all  of  these  operations  a  corps  of  counsel  had  been 
employed,  including  the  firm  of  Harrington  and  Bowes: 
next  to  Theodore  Watling,  Joel  Harrington  was  deemed  the 
ablest  lawyer  in  the  city.  We  organized  in  due  time  the 
corporation  known  as  the  Boyne  Iron  Works,  Limited;  a 
trust  agreement  was  drawn  up  that  was  a  masterpiece  of 
its  kind,  one  that  caused,  first  and  last,  meddling  officials 
in  the  Department  of  Justice  at  Washington  no  little  trouble 
and  perplexity.  I  was  proud  of  the  fact  that  I  had  taken 
no  small  part  in  its  composition.  ...  In  short,  in  addition 
to  certain  emoluments  and  opportunities  for  investment,  I 
emerged  from  the  affair  firmly  established  in  the  good  graces 
of  Adolf  Scherer,  and  with  a  reputation  practically  made. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  269 

A  year  or  so  after  the  Boyne  Company,  Ltd.,  came  into  exist 
ence  I  chanced  one  morning  to  go  down  to  the  new  Ashuela 
Hotel  to  meet  a  New  Yorker  of  some  prominence,  and  was 
awaiting  him  in  the  lobby,  when  I  overheard  a  conversation 
between  two  commercial  travellers  who  were  sitting  with 
their  backs  to  me. 

"Did  you  notice  that  fellow  who  went  up  to  the  desk  a 
moment  ago?"  asked  one. 

"The  young  fellow  in  the  grey  suit?  Sure.  Who  is  he? 
He  looks  as  if  he  was  pretty  well  fixed." 

"I  guess  he  is,"  replied  the  first.  "That's  Paret.  He's 
Scherer's  confidential  counsel.  He  used  to  be  Senator 
Watling's  partner,  but  they  say  he's  even  got  something  on 
the  old  man." 

In  spite  of  the  feverish  life  I  led,  I  was  still  undoubtedly 
young-looking,  and  in  this  I  was  true  to  the  incoming  type 
of  successful  man.  Our  fathers  appeared  staid  at  six  and 
thirty.  Clothes,  of  course,  made  some  difference,  and  my 
class  and  generation  did  not  wear  the  sombre  and  cumber 
some  kind,  with  skirts  and  tails;  I  patronized  a  tailor  in 
New  York.  My  chestnut  hair,  a  little  darker  than  my 
father's  had  been,  showed  no  signs  of  turning  grey,  although 
it  was  thinning  a  little  at  the  crown  of  the  forehead,  and  I 
wore  a  small  moustache,  clipped  in  a  straight  line  above 
the  mouth.  This  made  me  look  less  like  a  college  youth. 
Thanks  to  a  strong  pigment  in  my  skin,  derived  probably 
from  Scotch-Irish  ancestors,  my  colour  was  fresh.  I  have 
spoken  of  my  life  as  feverish,  and  yet  I  am  not  so  sure  that 
this  word  completely  describes  it.  It  was  full  to  over 
flowing  —  one  side  of  it ;  and  I  did  not  miss  (save  vaguely, 
in  rare  moments  of  weariness)  any  other  side  that  might  have 
been  developed.  I  was  busy  all  day  long,  engaged  in  affairs 
I  deemed  to  be  alone  of  vital  importance  in  the  universe. 
I  was  convinced  that  the  welfare  of  the  city  demanded  that 
supreme  financial  power  should  remain  in  the  hands  of  .the 
group  of  men  with  whom  I  was  associated,  and  whose 
battles  I  fought  in  the  courts,  in  the  legislature,  in  the  city 


270  A; FAR  COUNTRY 

council,  and  sometimes  in  Washington, — although  they  were 
well  cared  for  there.  By  every  means  ingenuity  could  de 
vise,  their  enemies  were  to  be  driven  from  the  field,  and  they 
were  to  be  protected  from  blackmail. 

A  sense  of  importance  sustained  me ;  and  I  remember  — 
in  that  first  flush  of  a  success  for  which  I  had  not  waited 
too  long  —  what  a  secret  satisfaction  it  was  to  pick  up  the 
Era  and  see  my  name  embedded  in  certain  dignified  notices 
of  board  meetings,  transactions  of  weight,  or  cases  known 
to  the  initiated  as  significant.  "Mr.  Scherer's  interests 
were  taken  care  of  by  Mr.  Hugh  Paret."  The  fact  that  my 
triumphs  were  modestly  set  forth  gave  me  more  pleasure 
than  if  they  had  been  trumpeted  in  head-lines.  Although  I 
might  have  started  out  in  practice  for  myself,  my  affection 
and  regard  for  Mr.  Watling  kept  me  in  the  firm,  which  be 
came  Watling,  Fowndes  and  Paret,  and  a  new  arrangement 
was  entered  into.  Mr.  Ripon  retired  on  account  of  ill 
health. 

There  were  instances,  however,  when  a  certain  amount  of 
annoying  publicity  was  inevitable.  Such  was  the  famous 
Galligan  case,  which  occurred  some  three  or  four  years  after 
my  marriage.  Aloysius  Galligan  was  a  brakeman,  and  his 
legs  had  become  paralyzed  as  the  result  of  an  accident  that 
was  the  result  of  defective  sills  on  a  freight  car.  He  had 
sued,  and  been  awarded  damages  of  $15,000.  To  the  amaze 
ment  and  indignation  of  Miller  Gorse,  the  Supreme  Court, 
to  which  the  Railroad  had  appealed,  affirmed  the  decision. 
It  wasn't  the  single  payment  of  $15,000  that  the  Railroad 
cared  about,  of  course;  a  precedent  might  be  established 
for  compensating  maimed  employees  which  would  be  expen 
sive  in  the  long  run.  Carelessness  could  not  be  proved  in 
this  instance.  Gorse  sent  for  me.  I  had  been  away  with 
Maude  at  the  sea  for  two  months,  and  had  not  followed  the 
case. 

"You've  got  to  take  charge,  Paret,  and  get  a  rehearing. 
See  Bering,  and  find  out  who  in  the  deuce  is  to  blame  for 
this.  Chesley's  one,  of  course.  We  ought  never  to  have 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  271 

permitted  his  nomination  for  the  Supreme  Bench.  It  was 
against  my  judgment,  but  Varney  and  Gill  assured  me  that 
he  was  all  right." 

I  saw  Judge  Bering  that  evening.  We  sat  on  a  plush 
sofa  in  the  parlour  of  his  house  in  Baker  Street. 

"I  had  a  notion  Gorse'd  be  mad,"  he  said,  "but  it  looked 
to  me  as  if  they  had  it  on  us,  Paret.  I  didn't  see  how  we 
could  do  anything  else  but  affirm  without  being  too  rank. 
Of  course,  if  he  feels  that  way,  and  you  want  to  make  a 
motion  for  a  rehearing,  I'll  see  what  can  be  done." 

"Something's  got  to  be  done,"  I  replied.  "Can't  you  see 
what  such  a  decision  lets  them  in  for?" 

"All  right,"  said  the  judge,  who  knew  an  order  when  he 
heard  one,  "I  guess  we  can  find  an  error."  He  was  not  a 
little  frightened  by  the  report  of  Mr.  Gorse's  wrath,  for 
election-day  was  approaching.  "Say,  you  wouldn't  take 
me  for  a  sentimental  man,  now,  would  you  ? " 

I  smiled  at  the  notion  of  it. 

"  Well,  I'll  own  up  to  you  this  kind  of  got  under  my  skin. 
That  Galligan  is  a  fine-looking  fellow,  if  there  ever  was  one, 
and  he'll  never  be  of  a  bit  of  use  any  more.  Of  course  the 
case  was  plain  sailing,  and  they  ought  to  have  had  the  ver 
dict,  but  that  lawyer  of  his  handled  it  to  the  queen's  taste, 
if  I  do  say  so.  He  made  me  feel  real  bad,  by  God,  —  as  if  it 
was  my  own  son  Ed  who'd  been  battered  up.  Lord,  I  can't 
forget  the  look  in  that  man  Galligan's  eyes.  I  hate  to  go 
through  it  again,  and  reverse  it,  but  I  guess  I'll  have  to, 
now." 

The  Judge  sat  gazing  at  the  flames  playing  over  his  gas 
log. 

"Who  was  the  lawyer?"  I  asked. 

"A  man  by  the  name  of  Krebs,"  he  replied.  "Never 
heard  of  him  before.  He's  just  moved  to  the  city." 

"  This  city?"  I  ejaculated. 

The  Judge  glanced  at  me  interestedly. 

"This  city,  of  course.     What  do  you  know  about  him?" 

"Well,"  I  answered,  when  I  had  recovered  a  little  from 


272  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

the  shock — for  it  was  a  distinct  shock  —  "he  lived  in  Elking- 
ton.  He  was  the  man  who  stirred  up  the  trouble  in  the 
legislature  about  Bill  709." 

The  Judge  slapped  his  knee. 

"That  fellow!"  he  exclaimed,  and  ruminated.  "Why 
didn't  somebody  tell  me  ?  "  he  added,  complainingly.  "  Why 
didn't  Miller  Gorse  let  me  know  about  it,  instead  of  kicking 
up  a  fuss  after  it's  all  over?"  .  .  . 

Of  all  men  of  my  acquaintance  I  had  thought  the  Judge 
the  last  to  grow  maudlin  over  the  misfortunes  of  those  who 
were  weak  or  unfortunate  enough  to  be  defeated  and  crushed 
in  the  struggle  for  existence,  and  it  was  not  without  food  for 
reflection  that  I  departed  from  his  presence.  To  make  Mr. 
Bering  "feel  bad"  was  no  small  achievement,  and  Krebs 
had  been  responsible  for  it,  of  course,  —  not  Galligan. 
Krebs  had  turned  up  once  more !  It  seemed  as  though  he 
were  destined  to  haunt  me.  Well,  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
he  should  not  disturb  me  again,  at  any  rate:  I,  at  least, 
had  learned  to  eliminate  sentimentality  from  business,  and 
it  was  not  without  deprecation  I  remembered  my  experience 
with  him  at  the  Capital,  when  he  had  made  me  temporarily 
ashamed  of  my  connection  with  Bill  709.  I  had  got  over 
that.  And  when  I  entered  the  court  room  (the  tribunal 
having  graciously  granted  a  rehearing  on  the  ground  that  it 
had  committed  an  error  in  the  law !)  my  feelings  were  of 
lively  curiosity  and  zest.  I  had  no  disposition  to  underrate 
his  abilities,  but  I  was  fortified  by  the  consciousness  of  a  series 
of  triumphs  behind  me,  by  a  sense  of  association  with  pre 
vailing  forces  against  which  he  was  helpless.  I  could  afford 
to  take  a  superior  attitude  in  regard  to  one  who  was  destined 
always  to  be  dramatic. 

As  the  case  proceeded  I  was  rather  disappointed  on  the 
whole  that  he  was  not  dramatic  —  not  even  as  dramatic 
as  he  had  been  when  he  defied  the  powers  in  the  Legislature. 
He  had  changed  but  little,  he  still  wore  ill-fitting  clothes,  but 
I  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  he  seemed  to  have  gained 
in  self-control,  in  presence.  He  had  nodded  at  me  before 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  273 

the  case  was  called,  as  he  sat  beside  his  maimed  client ;  and 
I  had  been  on  the  alert  for  a  hint  of  reproach  in  his  glance : 
there  was  none.  I  smiled  back  at  him.  .  .  . 

He  did  not  rant.  He  seemed  to  have  rather  a  remarkable 
knowledge  of  the  law.  In  a  conversational  tone  he  described 
the  sufferings  of  the  man  in  the  flannel  shirt  beside  him,  but 
there  could  be  no  question  of  the  fact  that  he  did  produce 
an  effect.  The  spectators  were  plainly  moved,  and  it  was 
undeniable  that  some  of  the  judges  wore  rather  a  sheepish 
look  as  they  toyed  with  their  watch  chains  or  moved  the 
stationery  in  front  of  them.  They  had  seen  manned  men 
before,  they  had  heard  impassioned,  sentimental  lawyers 
talk  about  wives  and  families  and  God  and  justice.  Krebs 
did  none  of  this.  Just  how  he  managed  to  bring  the  thing 
home  to  those  judges,  to  make  them  ashamed  of  their  role, 
just  how  he  managed  —  in  spite  of  my  fortified  attitude  — 
to  revive  something  of  that  sense  of  discomfort  I  had  expe 
rienced  at  the  State  House  is  difficult  to  say.  It  was  because, 
I  think,  he  contrived  through  the  intensity  of  his  own  sym 
pathy  to  enter  into  the  body  of  the  man  whose  cause  he 
pleaded,  to  feel  the  despair  in  Galligan's  soul  —  an  impres 
sion  that  was  curiously  conveyed  despite  the  dignified 
limits  to  which  he  confined  his  speech.  It  was  strange  that 
I  began  to  be  rather  sorry  for  him,  that  I  felt  a  certain  re 
luctant  regret  that  he  should  thus  squander  his  powers 
against  overwhelming  odds.  What  was  the  use  of  it  all ! 

At  the  end  his  voice  became  more  vibrant  —  though  he 
did  not  raise  it  —  as  he  condemned  the  Railroad  for  its  in 
difference  to  human  life,  for  its  contention  that  men  were 
cheaper  than  rolling-stock. 

I  encountered  him  afterward  in  the  corridor.  I  had  made 
a  point  of  seeking  him  out,  perhaps  from  some  vague  deter 
mination  to  prove  that  our  last  meeting  in  the  little  restaurant 
at  the  Capital  had  left  no  traces  of  embarrassment  in  me : 
I  was,  in  fact,  rather  aggressively  anxious  to  reveal  myself 
to  him  as  one  who  has  thriven  on  the  views  he  condemned, 
as  one  in  whose  unity  of  mind  there  is  no  rift.  He  was  alone, 


274  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

apparently  waiting  for  someone,  leaning  against  a  steam 
radiator  in  one  of  his  awkward,  angular  poses,  looking  out 
of  the  court-house  window. 

"How  are  you?"  I  said  blithely.  "So  you've/ left  Elking-* 
ton  for  a  wider  field."  I  wondered  whether  my  alert  cousin-/ 
in-law,  George  Hutchins,  had  made  it  too  hot  for  him. 

He  turned  to  me  unexpectedly  a  face  of  profound  melan 
choly  ;  his  expression  had  in  it,  oddly,  a  trace  of  sternness ; 
and  I  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by  this  evidence  that  he 
was  still  bearing  vicariously  the  troubles  of  his  client.  So 
deep  had  been  the  thought  I  had  apparently  interrupted 
that  he  did  not  realize  my  presence  at  first. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Paret.     Yes,  I've  left  Elkington,"  he  said. 

"  Something  of  a  surprise  to  run  up  against  you  suddenly, 
like  this." 

"I  expected  to  see  you,"  he  answered  gravely,  and  the 
slight  emphasis  he  gave  the  pronoun  implied  not  only  a  com 
plete  knowledge  of  the  situation  and  of  the  part  I  had  taken 
in  it,  but  also  a  greater  rebuke  than  if  his  accusation  had  been 
direct.  But  I  clung  to  my  affability. 

"If  I  can  do  anything  for  you,  let  me  know,"  I  told  him. 
He  said  nothing,  he  did  not  even  smile.  At  this  moment 
he  was  opportunely  joined  by  a  man  who  had  the  appear 
ance  of  a  labour  leader,  and  I  walked  away.  I  was  resentful ; 
my  mood,  in  brief,  was  that  of  a  man  who  has  done  some 
thing  foolish  and  is  inclined  to  talk  to  himself  aloud :  but 
the  mood  was  complicated,  made  the  more  irritating  by  the 
paradoxical  fact  that  that  last  look  he  had  given  me  seemed 
to  have  borne  the  traces  of  affection.  .  .  . 

It  is  perhaps  needless  to  add  that  the  court  reversed  its 
former  decision. 


THE  Pilot  published  a  series  of  sensational  articles  and 
editorials  about  the  Galligan  matter,  a  picture  of  Galligan, 
an  account  of  the  destitute  state  of  his  wife  and  family.  The 
time  had  not  yet  arrived  when  such  newspapers  dared  to 
attack  the  probity  of  our  courts,  but  a  system  of  law  that 
permitted  such  palpable  injustice  because  of  technicalities 
was  bitterly  denounced.  What  chance  had  a  poor  man 
against  such  a  moloch  as  the  railroad,  even  with  a  lawyer 
of  such  ability  as  had  been  exhibited  by  Hermann  Krebs? 
Krebs  was  praised,  and  the  attention  of  Mr.  Lawler's  readers 
was  called  to  the  fact  that  Krebs  was  the  man  who,  some 
years  before,  had  opposed  single-handed  in  the  legislature 
the  notorious  Bill  No.  709.  It  was  well  known  in  certain 
circles  —  the  editorial  went  on  to  say  —  that  this  legislation 
had  been  drawn  by  Theodore  Watling  in  the  interests  of  the 
Boyne  Iron  Works,  etc.,  etc.  Hugh  Paret  had  learned  at 
the  feet  of  an  able  master.  This  first  sight  of  my  name  thus 
opprobriously  flung  to  the  multitude  gave  me  an  unpleasant 
shock.  I  had  seen  Mr.  Scherer  attacked,  Mr.  Gorse  attacked, 
and  Mr.  Watling:  I  had  all  along  realized,  vaguely,  that 
my  turn  would  come,  and  I  thought  myself  to  have  acquired 
a  compensating  philosophy.  I  threw  the  sheet  into  the 
waste  basket,  presently  picked  it  out  again  and  reread  the 
sentence  containing  my  name.  Well,  there  were  certain 
penalties  that  every  career  must  pay.  I  had  become,  at  last, 
a  marked  man,  and  I  recognized  the  fact  that  this  assault 
would  be  the  forerunner  of  many. 

I  tried  to  derive  some  comfort  and  amusement  from  the 
thought  of  certain  operations  of  mine  that  Mr.  Lawler  had 
not  discovered,  that  would  have  been  matters  of  peculiar 

275 


276  A  FAR;  COUNTRY 

interest  to  his  innocent  public :  certain  extra-legal  operations 
at  the  time  when  the  Boyne  corporation  was  being  formed, 
for  instance.  And  how  they  would  have  licked  their  chops 
had  they  learned  of  that  manoeuvre  by  which  I  had  managed 
to  have  one  of  Mr.  Scherer's  subsidiary  companies  in  another 
state,  with  property  and  assets  amounting  to  more  than 
twenty  millions,  reorganized  under  the  laws  of  New  Jersey, 
and  the  pending  case  thus  transferred  to  the  Federal  court, 
where  we  won  hands  down !  This  Galligan  affair  was  nothing 
to  that.  Nevertheless,  it  was  annoying.  As  I  sat  in  the 
street  car  on  my  way  homeward,  a  man  beside  me  was 
reading  the  Pilot.  I  had  a  queer  sensation  as  he  turned 
the  page,  and  scanned  the  editorial;  and  I  could  not  help 
wondering  what  he  and  the  thousands  like  him  thought 
of  me ;  what  he  would  say  if  I  introduced  myself  and  asked 
his  opinion.  Perhaps  he  did  not  think  at  all :  undoubtedly 
he,  and  the  public  at  large,  were  used  to  Mr.  Lawler's  daily 
display  of  "injustices."  Nevertheless,  like  slow  acid,  they 
must  be  eating  into  the  public  consciousness.  It  was  an 
outrage  —  this  freedom  of  the  press. 

With  renewed  exasperation  I  thought  of  Krebs,  of  his 
disturbing  and  almost  uncanny  faculty  of  following  me  up. 
Why  couldn't  he  have  remained  in  Elkington?  Why  did 
he  have  to  follow  me  here,  to  make  capital  out  of  a  case  that 
might  never  have  been  heard  of  except  for  him?  ...  I 
was  still  in  this  disagreeable  frame  of  mind  when  I  turned 
the  corner  by  my  house  and  caught  sight  of  Maude,  in  the 
front  yard,  bending  bareheaded  over  a  bed  of  late  flowers 
which  the  frost  had  spared.  The  evening  was  sharp,  the 
dusk  already  gathering. 

"You'll  catch  cold,"  I  called  to  her. 

She  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  my  voice.  i 

"They'll  soon  be  gone,"  she  sighed,  referring  to  the 
flowers.  "I  hate  winter." 

She  put  her  hand  through  my  arm,  and  we  went  into  the 
house.  The  curtains  were  drawn,  a  fire  was  crackling  on 
the  hearth,  the  lamps  were  lighted,  and  as  I  dropped  into 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  277 

a  chair  this  living-room  of  ours  seemed  to  take  on  the  air 
of  a  refuge  from  the  vague,  threatening  sinister  things  of 
the  world  without.  I  felt  I  had  never  valued  it  before. 
Maude  took  up  her  sewing  and  sat  down  beside  the  table. 

"Hugh,"  she  said  suddenly,  "I  read  something  in  the 
newspaper — " 
)     My  exasperation  flared  up  again. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  disreputable  sheet?"  I  demanded. 

"At  the  dressmaker's!"  she  answered.  "I  —  I  just 
happened  to  see  the  name,  Paret." 

"It's  just  politics,"  I  declared,  "stirring  up  discontent 
by  misrepresentation.  Jealousy." 

She  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  gazing  into  the  flames. 

"Then  it  isn't  true  that  this  poor  man,  Galligan  —  isn't 
that  his  name  ?  —  was  cheated  out  of  the  damages  he  ought 
to  have  to  keep  himself  and  his  family  alive?" 

"  You  must  have  been  talking  to  Perry  or  Susan,"  I  said. 
"They  seem  to  be  convinced  that  I  am  an  oppressor  of  the 
poor." 

"  Hugh ! "  The  tone  in  which  she  spoke  my  name  smote 
me.  "How  can  you  say  that?  How  can  you  doubt  their 
loyalty,  and  mine?  Do  you  think  they  would  undermine 
you,  and  to  me,  behind  your  back?" 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,  of  course,  Maude.  I  was  annoyed  — 
about  something  else.  And  Tom  and  Perry  have  an  air  of 
deprecating  most  of  the  enterprises  in  which  I  am  profession 
ally  engaged.  It's  very  well  for  them  to  talk.  All  Perry 
has  to  do  is  to  sit  back  and  take  in  receipts  from  the  Boyne 
Street  car  line,  and  Tom  is  content  if  he  gets  a  few  commis 
sions  every  week.  They're  like  militiamen  criticizing  soldiers 
under  fire.  I  know  they're  good  friends  of  mine,  but  some 
times  I  lose  patience  with  them." 

I  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window,  and  came  back  again 
and  stood  before  her. 

"I'm  sorry  for  this  man,  Galligan,"  I  went  on,  "I  can't 
tell  you  how  sorry.  But  few  people  who  are  not  on  the  in 
side,  so  to  speak,  grasp  the  fact  that  big  corporations,  like 


278  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

the  Railroad,  are  looked  upon  as  fair  game  for  every  kind 
of  parasite.  Not  a  day  passes  in  which  attempts  are  not 
made  to  bleed  them.  Some  of  these  cases  are  pathetic.  It 
had  cost  the  Railroad  many  times  fifteen  thousand  dollars 
to  fight  Galligan's  case.  But  if  they  had  paid  it,  they  would 
have  laid  themselves  open  to  thousands  of  similar  demands. 
Dividends  would  dwindle.  The  stockholders  have  a  right 
to  a  fair  return  on  their  money.  Galligan  claims  that  there 
was  a  defective  sill  on  the  car  which  is  said  to  have  caused 
the  wreck.  If  damages  are  paid  on  that  basis,  it  means  the 
daily  inspection  of  every  car  which  passes  over  their  lines. 
And  more  than  that:  there  are  certain  defects,  as  in  the 
present  case,  which  an  inspection  would  not  reveal.  When 
a  man  accepts  employment  on  a  railroad  he  assumes  a  cer 
tain  amount  of  personal  risk,  —  it's  not  precisely  a  chamber 
maid's  job.  And  the  lawyer  who  defends  such  cases,  what 
ever  his  personal  feelings  may  be,  cannot  afford  to  be  swayed 
by  them.  He  must  take  the  larger  view." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  about  it  before?"  she  asked. 

"  Well,  I  didn't  think  it  of  enough  importance  —  these 
things  are  all  in  the  day's  work." 

"But  Mr.  Krebs?  How  strange  that  he  should  be  here, 
connected  with  the  case ! " 

I  made  an  effort  to  control  myself. 

"Your  old  friend,"  I  said.  "I  believe  you  have  a  senti 
ment  about  him." 

She  looked  up  at  me. 

"Scarcely  that,"  she  replied  gravely,  with  the  literalness 
that  often  characterized  her,  "  but  he  isn't  a  person  easily  j 
forgotten.  He  may  be  queer,  one  may  not  agree  with  his 
views,  but  after  the  experience  I  had  with  him  I've  never 
been  able  to  look  at  him  in  the  way  George  does,  for  in 
stance,  or  even  as  father  does." 

"Or  even  as  I  do,"  I  supplied. 

"Well,  perhaps  not  even  as  you  do,"  she  answered  calmly. 
"  I  believe  you  once  told  me,  however,  that  you  thought  him 
a  fanatic,  but  sincere." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  279 

"He's  certainly  a  fanatic!"  I  exclaimed. 

"But  sincere,  Hugh  —  you  still  think  him  sincere." 

"You  seem  a  good  deal  concerned  about  a  man  you've 
laid  eyes  on  but  once." 

She  considered  this. 

"Yes,  it  is  surprising,"  she  admitted,  "but  it's  true.  I 
was  sorry  for  him,  but  I  admired  him.  I  was  not  only  im 
pressed  by  his  courage  in  taking  charge  of  me,  but  also  by 
the  trust  and  affection  the  work-people  showed.  He  must 
be  a  good  man,  however  mistaken  he  may  be  in  the  methods 
he  employs.  And  life  is  cruel  to  those  people." 

"Life  is  —  life,"  I  observed.  "Neither  you  nor  I  nor 
Krebs  is  able  to  change  it." 

"Has  he  come  here  to  practice?"  she  asked,  after  a 
moment. 

"Yes.  Do  you  want  me  to  invite  him  to  dinner?"  and 
seeing  that  she  did  not  reply  I  continued :  "  In  spite  of  my 
explanation  I  suppose  you  think,  because  Krebs  defended 
the  man  Galligan,  that  a  monstrous  injustice  has  been  done." 

"That  is  unworthy  of  you,"  she  said,  bending  over  her 
stitch. 

I  began  to  pace  the  room  again,  as  was  my  habit  when  over 
wrought. 

"Well,  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  this  affair  if  you  had 
not  forestalled  me  by  mentioning  it  yourself.  It  isn't 
pleasant  to  be  vilified  by  rascals  who  make  capital  out  of 
vilification,  and  a  man  has  a  right  to  expect  some  sympathy 
from  his  wife." 

" Did  I  ever  deny  you  that,  Hugh ? "  she  asked.  "Only  — 
you  don't  ever  seem  to  need  it,  to  want  it." 

"And  there  are  things,"  I  pursued,  "things  in  a  man's 
province  that  a  woman  ought  to  accept  from  her  husband, 
things  which  in  the  very  nature  of  the  case  she  can  know 
nothing  about." 

"But  a  woman  must  think  for  herself,"  she  declared. 
"She  shouldn't  become  a  mere  automaton,  —  and  these 
questions  involve  so  much!  People  are  discussing  them, 


280  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

the  magazines  and  periodicals  are  beginning  to  take  them 
up." 

I  stared  at  her,  somewhat  appalled  by  this  point  of  view. 
There  had,  indeed,  been  signs  of  its  development  before  now, 
but  I  had  not  heeded  them.  And  for  the  first  tune  I  beheld 
Maude  in  a  new  light. 

"  Oh,  it's  not  that  I  don't  trust  you,"  she  continued,  "  I'm 
open  to  conviction,  but  I  must  be  convinced.  Your  explana 
tion  of  this  Galligan  case  seems  a  sensible  one,  although  it's 
depressing.  But  life  is  hard  and  depressing  sometimes  — 
I've  come  to  realize  that.  I  want  to  think  over  what  you've 
said,  I  want  to  talk  over  it  some  more.  Why  won't  you 
tell  me  more  of  what  you  are  doing?  If  you  only  would 
confide  in  me  —  as  you  have  now !  I  can't  help  seeing  that 
we  are  growing  farther  and  farther  apart,  that  business, 
your  career,  is  taking  all  of  you  and  leaving  me  nothing." 
She  faltered,  and  went  on  again.  "  It's  difficult  to  tell  you  this 
—  you  never  give  me  the  chance.  And  it's  not  for  my  sake 
alone,  but  for  yours,  too.  You  are  growing  more  and  more  self- 
centred,  surrounding  yourself  with  a  hard  shell.  You  don't 
realize  it,  but  Tom  notices  it,  Perry  notices  it,  it  hurts 
them,  it's  that  they  complain  of.  Hugh!"  she  cried  appeal- 
ingly,  sensing  my  resentment,  forestalling  the  words  of  de 
fence  ready  on  my  lips.  "I  know  that  you  are  busy,  that 
many  men  depend  on  you,  it  isn't  that  I'm  not  proud  of  you 
and  your  success,  but  you  don't  understand  what  a  woman 
craves,  —  she  doesn't  want  only  to  be  a  good  housekeeper, 
a  good  mother,  but  she  wants  to  share  a  little,  at  any  rate, 
in  the  life  of  her  husband,  in  his  troubles  as  well  as  in  his 
successes.  She  wants  to  be  of  some  little  use,  of  some  little 
help  to  him." 

My  feelings  were  reduced  to  a  medley. 

"But  you  are  a  help  to  me  —  a  great  help,"  I  protested. 

She  shook  her  head.     "I  wish  I  were,"  she  said. 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  she  might  be.  I  was 
softened,  and  alarmed  by  the  spectacle  she  had  revealed  of  the 
widening  breach  between  us.  I  laid  my  hand  on  her  shoulder. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  281 

"Well,  I'll  try  to  do  better,  Maude." 

She  looked  up  at  me,  questioningly  yet  gratefully, 
through  a  mist  of  tears.  But  her  reply  —  whatever  it 
might  have  been  —  was  forestalled  by  the  sound  of  shouts 
and  laughter  in  the  hallway.  She  sprang  up  and  ran  to 
the  door. 

"It's  the  children,"  she  exclaimed,  "they've  come  home 
from  Susan's  party!" 

2 

It  begins  indeed  to  look  as  if  I  were  writing  this  narrative 
upside  down,  for  I  have  said  nothing  about  children.  Per 
haps  one  reason  for  this  omission  is  that  I  did  not  really 
appreciate  them,  that  I  found  it  impossible  to  take  the  same 
minute  interest  in  them  as  Tom,  for  instance,  who  was, 
apparently,  not  content  alone  with  the  six  which  he  possessed, 
but  had  adopted  mine.  One  of  them,  little  Sarah,  said 
"Uncle  Tom"  before  "Father."  I  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  I  had  not  occasional  moments  of  tenderness  toward 
them,  but  they  were  out  of  my  thoughts  much  of  the  tune. 
I  have  often  wondered,  since,  how  they  regarded  me ;  how, 
in  their  little  minds,  they  defined  the  relationship.  Gener 
ally,  when  I  arrived  home  in  the  evening  I  liked  to  sit  down 
before  my  study  fire  and  read  the  afternoon  newspapers  or 
a  magazine ;  but  occasionally  I  went  at  once  to  the  nursery 
for  a  few  moments,  to  survey  with  complacency  the  medley 
of  toys  on  the  floor,  and  to  kiss  all  three.  They  received  my 
caresses  with  a  certain  shyness  —  the  two  younger  ones, 
at  least,  as  though  they  were  at  a  loss  to  place  me  as  a  factor 
in  the  establishment.  They  tumbled  over  each  other  to 
greet  Maude,  and  even  Tom.  If  I  were  an  enigma  to  them, 
what  must  they  have  thought  of  him  ?  Sometimes  I  would 
discover  him  on  the  nursery  floor,  with  one  or  two  of  his  own 
children,  building  towers  and  castles  and  railroad  stations, 
or  forts  to  be  attacked  and  demolished  by  regiments  of  lead 
soldiers.  He  was  growing  comfortable-looking,  if  not  exactly 
stout ;  prematurely  paternal,  oddly  willing  to  renounce  the 


282  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

fiercer  joys  of  life,  the  joys  of  acquisition,  of  conquest,  of 
youth. 

"You'd  better  come  home  with  me,  Chickabiddy,"  he 
would  say,  "that  father  of  yours  doesn't  appreciate  you. 
He's  too  busy  getting  rich." 

"Chickabiddy,"  was  his  name  for  little  Sarah.  Half  of 
the  name  stuck  to  her,  and  when  she  was  older  we  called  her 
Biddy. 

She  would  gaze  at  him  questioningly,  her  eyes  like  blue 
flower  cups,  a  strange  little  mixture  of  solemnity  and  bubbling 
mirth,  of  shyness  and  impulsiveness.  She  had  fat  legs  that 
creased  above  the  tops  of  the  absurd  little  boots  that  looked 
to  be  too  tight;  sometimes  she  rolled  and  tumbled  in  an 
ecstasy  of  abandon,  and  again  she  would  sit  motionless,  as 
though  absorbed  in  dreams.  Her  hair  was  like  corn  silk 
in  the  sun,  twisting  up  into  soft  curls  after  her  bath,  when 
she  sat  rosily  presiding  over  her  supper  table. 

As  I  look  back  over  her  early  infancy,  I  realize  that  I 
loved  her,  although  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  say  how  much 
of  this  love  is  retrospective.  Why  I  was  not  mad  about  her 
every  hour  of  the  day  is  a  puzzle  to  me  now.  Why,  indeed, 
was  I  not  mad  about  all  three  of  them  ?  There  were  moments 
when  I  held  and  kissed  them,  when  something  within  me 
melted :  moments  when  I  was  away  from  them,  and  thought 
of  them.  But  these  moments  did  not  last.  The  something 
within  me  hardened  again,  I  became  indifferent,  my  family 
was  'wiped  out  of  my  consciousness  as  though  it  had  never 
existed. 

There  was  Matthew,  for  instance,  the  oldest.  When  he 
arrived,  he  was  to  Maude  a  never-ending  miracle,  she  would 
have  his  crib  brought  into  her  room,  and  I  would  find  her 
leaning  over  the  bedside,  gazing  at  him  with  a  rapt  expres 
sion  beyond  my  comprehension.  To  me  he  was  just  a 
brick-red  morsel  of  humanity,  all  folds  and  wrinkles,  and 
not  at  all  remarkable  in  any  way.  Maude  used  to  annoy 
me  by  getting  out  of  bed  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when 
he  cried,  and  at  such  tunes  I  was  apt  to  wonder  at  the 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  283 

odd  trick  the  life-force  had  played  me,  and  ask  myself  why 
I  got  married  at  all.  It  was  a  queer  method  of  carrying 
on  the  race  1  Later  on,  I  began  to  take  a  cursory  interest 
in  him,  to  watch  for  signs  in  him  of  certain  characteristics 
of  my  own  youth  which,  in  the  philosophy  of  my  manhood, 
I  had  come  to  regard  as  defects.  And  it  disturbed  me 
somewhat  to  see  these  signs  appear.  I  wished  him  to  be 
what  I  had  become  by  force  of  will  —  a  fighter.  But  he 
was  a  sensitive  child,  anxious  for  approval;  not  robust, 
though  spiritual  rather  than  delicate ;  even  in  comparative 
infancy  he  cared  more  for  books  than  toys,  and  his  greatest 
joy  was  in  being  read  to.  In  spite  of  these  traits  —  perhaps 
because  of  them  —  there  was  a  sympathy  between  us. 
From  the  time  that  he  could  talk  the  child  seemed  to  under 
stand  me.  Occasionally  I  surprised  him  gazing  at  me  with 
a  certain  wistful  look  that  comes  back  to  me  as  I  write. 

Moreton,  Tom  used  to  call  Alexander  the  Great  because 
he  was  a  fighter  from  the  cradle,  beating  his  elder  brother, 
too  considerate  to  strike  back,  and  likewise  —  when  oppor 
tunity  offered  —  his  sister ;  and  appropriating  their  toys. 
A  self-sufficient,  doughty  young  man,  with  the  round  head 
that  withstands  many  blows,  taking  by  nature  to  competi 
tion  and  buccaneering  in  general.  I  did  not  love  him  half 
so  much  as  I  did  Matthew  —  if  such  intermittent  emotions 
as  mine  may  be  called  love.  It  was  a  standing  joke  of 
mine  —  which  Maude  strongly  resented  —  that  Moreton 
resembled  Cousin  George  of  Elkington. 


Imbued  with  the  highest  ambition  of  my  time,  I  had  set 
my  barque  on  a  great  circle,  and  almost  before  I  realized  it 
the  barque  was  burdened  with  a  wife  and  family  and  the 
steering  had  insensibly  become  more  difficult;  for  Maude 
cared  nothing  about  the  destination,  and  when  I  took  my 
hand  off  the  wheel  our  ship  showed  a  tendency  to  make  for 
a  quiet  harbour.  Thus  the  social  initiative,  which  I  believed 


284  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

should  have  been  the"  Woman's,  was  thrust  back  6ii  me.  It 
was  almost  incredible,  yet  indisputable,  in  a  day  when  most 
American  women  were  credited  with  a  craving  for  social 
ambition  that  I,  of  all  men,  should  have  married  a  wife  in 
whom  the  craving  was  wholly  absent !  She  might  have  had 
what  other  women  would  have  given  their  souls  for.  There 
were  many  reasons  why  I  wished  her  to  take  what  I  deemed 
her  proper  place  in  the  community  as  my  wife  —  not  that 
I  cared  for  what  is  called  society  in  the  narrow  sense ;  with 
me,  it  was  a  logical  part  of  a  broader  scheme  of  life ;  an 
auxiliary  rather  than  an  essential,  but  a  needful  auxiliary; 
:a  means  of  dignifying  and  adorning  the  position  I  was  taking. 
Not  only  that,  but  I  felt  the  need  of  intercourse  —  of  inter 
course  of  a  lighter  and  more  convivial  nature  with  men  and 
women  who  saw  life  as  I  saw  it.  In  the  evenings  when  we 
did  not  go  out  into  that  world  our  city  afforded  ennui  took 
possession  of  me :  I  had  never  learned  to  care  for  books,  I 
tad  no  resources  outside  of  my  profession,  and  when  I  was 
•not  working  on  some  legal  problem  I  dawdled  over  the  news 
papers  and  went  to  bed.  I  don't  mean  to  imply  that  our 
existence,  outside  of  our  continued  intimacy  with  the  Peterses 
and  the  Blackwoods,  was  socially  isolated.  We  gave  little 
dinners  that  Maude  carried  out  with  skill  and  taste;  but 
it  was  I  who  suggested  them ;  we  went  out  to  other  dinners, 
sometimes  to  Nancy's  —  though  we  saw  less  and  less  of  her 
—  sometimes  to  other  houses.  But  Maude  had  given  evi 
dence  of  domestic  tastes  and  a  disinclination  for  gaiety  that 
those  who  entertained  more  were  not  slow  to  sense.  I 
should  have  liked  to  take  a  larger  house,  but  I  felt  the  futility 
of  suggesting  it ;  the  children  were  still  small,  and  she  was 
•occupied  with  them.  Meanwhile  I  beheld,  and  at  times  with 
•considerable  irritation,  the  social  world  changing,  growing 
larger  and  more  significant,  a  more  important  function  of 
that  higher  phase  of  American  existence  the  new  century 
seemed  definitely  to  have  initiated.  A  segregative  process 
was  under  way  to  which  Maude  was  wholly  indifferent.  Our 
city  was  throwing -off  its  social  conservatism ;  wealth  (which 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  285 

Implied  ability  and  superiority)  was  playing  a  greater  part, 
entertainments  were  more  luxurious,  lines  more  strictly 
drawn.  We  had  an  elaborate  country  club  for  those  who 
could  afford  expensive  amusements.  Much  of  this  trans 
formation  had  been  due  to  the  initiative  and  leadership  of 
Nancy  Durrett.  .  .  . 

Great  and  sudden  wealth,  however,  if  combined  with 
obscure  antecedents  and  questionable  qualifications,  was 
still  looked  upon  askance.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  Adolf 
Scherer  had  "put  us  on  the  map,"  the  family  of  the  great 
iron-master  still  remained  outside  of  the  social  pale.  He 
himself  might  have  entered  had  it  not  been  for  his  wife, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  "  queer, "  who  remained  at  home  in 
her  house  opposite  Gallatin  Park  and  made  little  German 
cakes, — a  huge  house  which  an  unknown  architect  had  taken 
unusual  pains  to  make  pretentious  and  hideous,  for  it  was 
Rhenish,  Moorish  and  Victorian  by  turns.  Its  geometric 
grounds  matched  those  of  the  park,  itself  a  monument  to 
bad  taste  in  landscape.  The  neighbourhood  was  highly 
respectable,  and  inhabited  by  families  of  German  extraction. 
There  were  two  flaxen-haired  daughters  who  had  just 
graduated  from  an  expensive  boarding-school  in  New  York, 
where  they  had  received  the  polish  needful  for  future  careers. 
But  the  careers  were  not  forthcoming. 

I  was  thrown  constantly  with  Adolf  Scherer ;  I  had  earned 
his  gratitude,  I  had  become  necessary  to  him.  But  after 
the  great  coup  whereby  he  had  fulfilled  Mr.  Watling's  proph 
ecy  and  become  the  chief  factor  in  our  business  world  he 
began  to  show  signs  of  discontent,  of  an  irritability  that 
seemed  foreign  to  his  character,  and  that  puzzled  me.  One 
day,  however,  I  stumbled  upon  the  cause  of  this  fermenta 
tion,  to  wonder  that  I  had  not  discovered  it  before.  In 
many  ways  Adolf  Scherer  was  a  child.  We  were  sitting  in 
the  Boyne  Club. 

"  Money  —  yes ! "  he  exclaimed,  apropos  of  some  demand 
made  upon  him  by  a  charitable  society.  "They  come  to 
me  for  my  money  —  there  is  always  Scherer,  they  say.  He 


286  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

will  make  up  the  deficit  in  the  hospitals.  But  what  is  it 
they  do  for  me?  Nothing.  Do  they  invite  me  to  their 
houses,  to  their  parties  ?  " 

This  was  what  he  wanted,  then,  —  social  recognition. 
I  said  nothing,  but  I  saw  my  opportunity :  I  had  the  clew, 
now,  to  a  certain  attitude  he  had  adopted  of  late  toward 
me,  an  attitude  of  reproach;  as  though,  in  return  for  his 
many  favours  to  me,  there  were  something  I  had  left  undone. 
And  when  I  went  home  I  asked  Maude  to  call  on  Mrs.  Scherer. 

"  On  Mrs.  Scherer ! "  she  repeated. 

"Yes,  I  want  you  to  invite  them  to  dinner."  The  pro 
posal  seemed  to  take  away  her  breath.  "  I  owe  her  husband 
a  great  deal,  and  I  think  he  feels  hurt  that  the  wives  of  the 
men  he  knows  down  town  haven't  taken  up  his  family." 
I  felt  that  it  would  not  be  wise,  with  Maude,  to  announce 
my  rather  amazing  discovery  of  the  iron-master's  social  am 
bitions. 

"  But,  Hugh,  they  must  be  very  happy,  they  have  their 
friends.  And  after  all  this  tune  wouldn't  it  seem  like  an 
intrusion  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  so,"  I  said,  "I'm  sure  it  would  please  him, 
and  them.  You  know  how  kind  he's  been  to  us,  how  he 
sent  us  East  in  his  private  car  last  year." 

"Of  course  I'll  go  if  you  wish  it,  if  you're  sure  they  feel 
that  way."  She  did  make  the  call,  that  very  week,  and 
somewhat  to  my  surprise  reported  that  she  liked  Mrs. 
Scherer  and  the  daughters:  Maude's  likes  and  dislikes, 
needless  to  say,  were  not  governed  by  matters  of  policy. 

"  You  were  right,  Hugh,"  she  informed  me,  almost  with 
enthusiasm,  "they  did  seem  lonely.  And  they  were  so  glad 
to  see  me,  it  was  rather  pathetic.  Mr.  Scherer,  it  seems, 
had  talked  to  them  a  great  deal  about  you.  They  wanted 
to  know  why  I  hadn't  come  before.  That  was  rather  em 
barrassing.  Fortunately  they  didn't  give  me  time  to  talk,  — 
I  never  heard  people  talk  as  they  do.  They  all  kissed  me 
when  I  went  away,  and  came  down  the  steps  with  me.  And 
Mrs.  Scherer  went  into  the  conservatory  and  picked  a  huge 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  287 

bouquet.  There  it  is,"  she  said,  laughingly,  pointing  to 
several  vases.  "I  separated  the  colours  as  well  as  I  could 
when  I  got  home.  We  had  coffee,  and  the  most  delicious 
German  cakes  in  the  Turkish  room,  or  the  Moorish  room, 
whichever  it  is.  I'm  sure  I  shan't  be  able  to  eat  anything 
more  for  days.  When  do  you  wish  to  have  them  for  din 
ner?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "we  ought  to  have  time  to  get  the  right 
people  to  meet  them.  We'll  ask  Nancy  and  Ham." 

Maude  opened  her  eyes. 

"Nancy !     Do  you  think  Nancy  would  like  them?" 

"I'm  going  to  give  her  a  chance,  anyway,"  I  replied.  .  .  . 

It  was,  in  some  ways,  a  memorable  dinner.  I  don't  know 
what  I  expected  in  Mrs.  Scherer  —  from  Maude's  descrip 
tion  a  benevolent  and  somewhat  stupid,  blue-eyed  German 
woman,  of  peasant  extraction.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
about  the  peasant  extraction,  but  when  she  hobbled  into  our 
little  parlour  with  the  aid  of  a  stout,  gold-headed  cane  she 
dominated  it.  Her  very  lameness  added  to  a  distinction 
that  evinced  itself  in  a  dozen  ways.  Her  nose  was  hooked, 
her  colour  high,  —  despite  the  years  in  Steelville,  —  her 
peculiar  costume  heightened  the  effect  of  her  personality; 
her  firelit  black  eyes  bespoke  a  spirit  accustomed  to  rule, 
and  instead  of  being  an  aspirant  for  social  honours,  she 
seemed  to  confer  them.  Conversation  ceased  at  her  entrance. 

"  I'm  sorry  we  are  late,  my  dear,"  she  said,  as  she  greeted 
Maude  affectionately,  "  but  we  have  far  to  come.  And  this 
is  your  husband !"  she  exclaimed,  as  I  was  introduced.  She 
scrutinized  me.  "I  have  heard  something  of  you,  Mr. 
Paret.  You  are  smart.  Shall  I  tell  you  the  smartest  thing 
you  ever  did?"  She  patted  Maude's  shoulder.  "When 
you  married  your  wife  —  that  was  it.  I  have  fallen  in  love 
with  her.  If  you  do  not  know  it,  I  tell  you." 

Next,  Nancy  was  introduced. 

"So  you  are  Mrs.  Hambleton  Durrett?" 

Nancy  acknowledged  her  identity  with  a  smile,  but  the 
next  remark  was  a  bombshell. 


288  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"The  leader  of  society." 

*f  Alas !"  exclaimed  Nancy,  "I  have  been  accused  of  many 
terrible  things." 

Their  glances  met.  Nancy's  was  amused,  baffling,  like 
a  spark  in  amber.  Each,  in  its  way,  was  redoubtable.  A 
greater  contrast  between  two  women  could  scarcely  have 
been  imagined.  It  was  well  said  (and  not  snobbishly) 
that  generations  had  been  required  to  make  Nancy's  figure : 
she  wore  a  dress  of  blue  sheen,  the  light  playing  on  its  ripples ; 
and  as  she  stood,  apparently  wholly  at  ease,  looking  down 
at  the  wife  of  Adolf  Scherer,  she  reminded  me  of  an  expert 
swordsman  who,  with  remarkable  skill,  was  keeping  a  too- 
pressing  and  determined  aspirant  at  arm's  length.  I  was 
keenly  aware  that  Maude  did  not  possess  this  gift,  and  I 
realized  for  the  first  time  something  of  the  similarity  be 
tween  Nancy's  career  and  my  own.  She,  too,  in  her  feminine 
sphere,  exercised,  and  subtly,  a  power  in  which  human  pas 
sions  were  deeply  involved. 

If  Nancy  Durrett  symbolized  aristocracy,  established 
order  and  prestige,  what  did  Mrs.  Scherer  represent?  Not 
democracy,  mob  rule  —  certainly.  The  stocky  German 
peasant  woman  with  her  tightly  drawn  hair  and  heavy 
jewels  seemed  grotesquely  to  embody  something  that  ulti 
mately  would  have  its  way,  a  lusty  and  terrible  force  in  the 
interests  of  which  my  own  services  were  enlisted ;  to  which 
the  old  American  element  in  business  and  industry,  the  male 
counterpart  of  Nancy  Willett,  had  already  succumbed.  And 
now  it  was  about  to  storm  the  feminine  fastnesses !  I  be 
held  a  woman  who  had  come  to  this  country  with  a  shawl 
over  her  head  transformed  into  a  new  species  of  duchess, 
sure  of  herself,  scorning  the  delicate  euphemisms  in  which 
Nancy's  kind  were  wont  to  refer  to  a  social  realm,  that 
was  no  less  real  because  its  boundaries  had  not  definitely 
been  defined.  She  held  her  stick  firmly,  and  gave  Nancy 
.an  indomitable  look. 

"I  want  you  to  meet  my  daughters.  Gretchen,  Anna, 
come  here  and  be  introduced  to  Mrs.  Durrett." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  289 

It  was  not  without  curiosity  I  watched  these  of  the  second 
generation  as  they  made  their  bows,  noted  the  differentiation 
in  the  type  for  which  an  American  environment  and  a  "  finish 
ing  school"  had  been  responsible.  Gretchen  and  Anna  had 
learned  —  in  crises,  such  as  the  present  —  to  restrain  the 
superabundant  vitality  they  had  inherited.  If  their  cheek 
bones  were  a  little  too  high,  their  Delft  blue  eyes  a  little  too 
small,  their  colour  was  of  the  proverbial  rose-leaves  and 
cream.  Gene  Hollister's  difficulty  was  to  know  which  to 
marry.  They  were  nice  girls,  —  of  that  there  could  be  no 
doubt ;  there  was  no  false  modesty  in  their  attitude  toward 
"society";  nor  did  they  pretend  —  as  so  many  silly  people 
did,  that  they  were  not  attempting  to  get  anywhere  in  par 
ticular,  that  it  was  less  desirable  to  be  in  the  centre  than  on 
the  dubious  outer  walks.  They,  too,  were  so  glad  to  meet 
Mrs.  Durrett. 

Nancy's  eyes  twinkled  as  they  passed  on. 

"You  see  what  I  have  let  you  in  for?"  I  said. 

"My  dear  Hugh,"  she  replied,  "sooner  or  later  we  should 
have  had  to  face  them  anyhow.  I  have  recognized  that  for 
some  time.  With  their  money,  and  Mr.  Scherer's  prestige, 
and  the  will  of  that  lady  with  the  stick,  in  a  few  years  we 
should  have  had  nothing  to  say.  Why,  she's  a  female  Napo 
leon.  Hilda's  the  man  of  the  family." 

After  that,  Nancy  invariably  referred  to  Mrs.  Scherer  as 
Hilda. 

If  Mrs.  Scherer  was  a  surprise  to  us,  her  husband  was  a 
still  greater  one;  and  I  had  difficulty  in  recognizing  the 
Adolf  Scherer  who  came  to  our  dinner  party  as  the  personage 
of  the  business  world  before  whom  lesser  men  were  wont  to 
cringe.  He  seemed  rather  mysteriously  to  have  shed  that 
personality,  become  an  awkward,  ingratiating,  rather  too- 
exuberant,  ordinary  man  with  a  marked  German  accent. 
From  time  to  time  I  found  myself  speculating  uneasily  on 
this  phenomenon  as  I  glanced  down  the  table  at  his  great 
torso,  white  waistcoated  for  the  occasion.  He  was  plainly 
"making  up"  to  Nancy,  and  to  Mrs,  Ogilvy,  who  sat  op- 


290  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

posite  him.  On  the  whole,  the  atmosphere  of  our  enter 
tainment  was  rather  electric.  "Hilda"  was  chiefly  respon 
sible  for  this ;  her  frankness  was  of  the  breath-taking  kind. 
Far  from  attempting  to  hide  or  ignore  the  struggle  by  which 
she  and  her  husband  had  attained  their  present  position, 
she  referred  with  the  utmost  naivete  to  incidents  in  her  career, 
while  the  whole  table  paused  to  listen. 

"  Before  we  had  a  carriage,  yes,  it  was  hard  for  me  to  get 
about.  I  had  to  be  helped  by  the  conductors  into  the  street 
cars.  I  broke  my  hip  when  we  lived  in  Steelville,  and  the 
doctor  was  a  numbskull.  He  should  be  put  in  prison,  is 
what  I  tell  Adolf.  I  was  standing  on  a  clothes-horse,  when 
it  fell.  I  had  much  washing  to  do  in  those  days." 

"And  —  can  nothing  be  done,  Mrs.  Scherer?"  asked 
Leonard  Dickinson,  sympathetically. 

"  For  an  old  woman  ?  I  am  fifty-five.  I  have  had  many 
doctors.  I  would  put  them  all  in  prison.  How  much  was 
it  you  paid  Dr.  Stickney,  in  New  York,  Adolf  ?  Five  thou 
sand  dollars  ?  And  he  did  nothing  —  nothing.  I'd  rather 
be  poor  again,  and  work.  But  it  is  well  to  make  the  best 
of  it."  .  .  . 

"Your  grandfather  was  a  fine  man,  Mr.  Durrett,"  she 
informed  Hambleton.  "It  is  a  pity  for  you,  I  think,  that 
you  do  not  have  to  work." 

Ham,  who  sat  on  her  other  side,  was  amused. 

"My  grandfather  did  enough  work  for  both  of  us,"  he  said. 

"If  I  had  been  your  grandfather,  I  would  have  started 
you  in  puddling,"  she  observed,  as  she  eyed  with  disapproval 
the  filling  of  his  third  glass  of  champagne.  "I  think  there 
is  too  much  gay  life,  too  much  games  for  rich  young  men 
nowadays.  You  will  forgive  me  for  saying  what  I  think  to 
young  men?" 

"I'll  forgive  you  for  not  being  my  grandfather,  at  any 
rate,"  replied  Ham,  with  unaccustomed  wit. 

She  gazed  at  him  with  grim  humour. 

"It  is  bad  for  you  I  am  not,"  she  declared. 

There  was  no  gainsaying  her.    What  can  be  done  with  a 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  291 

lady  who  will  not  recognize  that  morality  is  not  discussed, 
and  that  personalities  are  tabooed  save  between  intimates. 
Hilda  was  a  personage  as  well  as  a  Tartar.  Laws,  conven 
tions,  usages  —  to  all  these  she  would  conform  when  it 
pleased  her.  She  would  have  made  an  admirable  inquisi 
torial  judge,  and  quite  as  admirable  a  sick  nurse.  A  rare 
criminal  lawyer,  likewise,  was  wasted  in  her.  She  was  one 
of  those  individuals,  I  perceived,  whose  loyalties  dominate  > 
them ;  and  who,  in  behalf  of  those  loyalties,  carry  chips  on 
their  shoulders. 

"It  is  a  long  time  that  I  have  been  wanting  to  meet  you," 
she  informed  me.  "You  are  smart." 

I  smiled,  yet  I  was  inclined  to  resent  her  use  of  the  word, 
though  I  was  by  no  means  sure  of  the  shade  of  meaning  she 
meant  to  put  into  it.  I  had,  indeed,  an  uneasy  sense  of  the 
scantiness  of  my  fund  of  humour  to  meet  and  turn  such  a 
situation ;  for  I  was  experiencing,  now,  with  her,  the  same 
queer  feeling  I  had  known  in  my  youth  in  the  presence  of 
Cousin  Robert  Breck  —  the  suspicion  that  this  extraor 
dinary  person  saw  through  me.  It  was  as  though  she  held 
up  a  mirror  and  compelled  me  to  look  at  my  soul  features. 
I  tried  to  assure  myself  that  the  mirror  was  distorted.  I 
lost,  nevertheless,  the  sureness  of  touch  that  comes  from  the 
conviction  of  being  all  of  a  piece.  She  contrived  to  resolve 
me  again  into  conflicting  elements.  I  was,  for  the  moment, 
no  longer  the  self-confident  and  triumphant  young  attorney 
accustomed  to  carry  all  before  him,  to  command  respect  and 
admiration,  but  a  complicated  being  whose  unity  had  sud 
denly  been  split.  I  glanced  around  the  table  at  Ogilvy,  at 
Dickinson,  at  Ralph  Hambleton.  These  men  were  func 
tioning  truly.  But  was  I  ?  If  I  were  not,  might  not  this  be 
the  reason  for  the  lack  of  synthesis  —  of  which  I  was  abruptly 
though  vaguely  aware  —  between  my  professional  life,  my 
domestic  relationships,  and  my  relationships  with  friends9 
The  loyalty  of  the  woman  beside  me  struck  me  forcibly  as  a 
supreme  trait.  Where  she  had  given,  she  did  not  withdraw. 
She  had  conferred  it  instantly  on  Maude.  Did  I  feel  that 


292  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

loyalty  towards  a  single  human  being?  towards  Maude 
herself  —  my  wife?  or  even  towards  Nancy?  I  pulled 
myself  together,  and  resolved  to  give  her  credit  for  using  the 
word  "smart"  in  its  unobjectionable  sense.  After  all, 
Dickens  had  so  used  it. 

"A  lawyer  must  needs  know  something  of  what  he  is  about, 
Mrs.  Scherer,  if  he  is  to  be  employed  by  such  a  man  as  your 
husband,"  I  replied. 

Her  black  eyes  snapped  with  pleasure. 

"Ah,  I  suppose  that  is  so,"  she  agreed.  "I  knew  he  was  a 
great  man  when  I  married  him,  and  that  was  before  Mr. 
Nathaniel  Durrett  found  it  out." 

"But  surely  you  did  not  think,  in  those  days,  that  he 
would  be  as  big  as  he  has  become  ?  That  he  would  not  only 
be  president  of  the  Boyne  Iron  Works,  but  of  a  Boyne  Iron 
Works  that  has  exceeded  Mr.  Durrett's  wildest  dreams." 

She  shook  her  head  complacently. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  told  him  when  he  married  me  ?  I 
said,  'Adolf,  it  is  a  pity  you  are  born  in  Germany.'  And 
when  he  asked  me  why,  I  told  him  that  some  day  he  might 
have  been  President  of  the  United  States." 

"Well,  that  won't  be  a  great  deprivation  to  him,"  I  re 
marked.  "Mr.  Scherer  can  do  what  he  wants,  and  the 
President  cannot." 

"Adolf  always  does  as  he  wants,"  she  declared,  gazing  at 
him  as  he  sat  beside  the  brilliant  wife  of  the  grandson  of  the 
man  whose  red-shirted  foreman  he  had  been.  "He  does 
what  he  wants,  and  gets  what  he  wants.  He  is  getting  what 
he  wants  now,"  she  added,  with  such  obvious  meaning  that 
I  found  no  words  to  reply.  "  She  is  pretty,  that  Mrs.  Dur 
rett,  and  clever,  —  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

I  agreed.  A  new  and  indescribable  note  had  come  into  Mrs. 
Scherer's  voice,  and  I  realized  that  she,  too,  was  aware  of 
that  flaw  in  the  redoubtable  Mr.  Scherer  which  none  of  his 
associates  had  guessed.  It  would  have  been  strange  if  she 
had  not  discovered  it.  "She  is  beautiful,  yes,"  the  lady 
continued  critically,  "but  she  is  not  to  compare  with  your 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  293 

wife.  She  has  not  the  heart,  —  it  is  so  with  all  your  people 
of  society.  For  them  it  is  not  what  you  are,  but  what  you 
have  done,  and  what  you  have." 

The  banality  of  this  observation  was  mitigated  by  the 
feeling  she  threw  into  it. 

"  I  think  you  misjudge  Mrs.  Durrett,"  I  said,  incautiously, 
"She  has  never  before  had  the  opportunity  of  meeting  Mr. 
Scherer,  of  appreciating  him." 

"  Mrs.  Durrett  is  an  old  friend  of  yours  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  was  brought  up  with  her." 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  and  turned  her  penetrating  glance 
upon  me.  I  was  startled.  Could  it  be  that  she  had  dis 
cerned  and  interpreted  those  renascent  feelings  even  then 
stirring  within  me,  and  of  which  I  myself  was  as  yet  scarcely 
conscious  ?  At  this  moment,  fortunately  for  me,  the  women 
rose;  the  men  remained  to  smoke;  and  Scherer,  as  they 
discussed  matters  of  finance,  became  himself  again.  I  joined 
in  the  conversation,  but  I  was  thinking  of  those  instants 
when  in  flashes  of  understanding  my  eyes  had  met  Nancy's ; 
instants  in  which  I  was  lifted  out  of  my  humdrum,  deadly 
serious  self  and  was  able  to  look  down  objectively  upon  the 
life  I  led,  the  life  we  all  led  —  and  Nancy  herself ;  to  see 
with  her  the  comic  irony  of  it  all.  Nancy  had  the  power  to 
give  me  this  exquisite  sense  of  detachment  that  must  sustain 
her.  And  was  it  not  just  this  sustenance  she  could  give  that 
I  needed?  For  want  of  it  I  was  hardening,  crystallizing, 
growing  blind  to  the  joy  and  variety  of  existence.  Nancy 
could  have  saved  me;  she  brought  it  home  to  me  that  I 
needed  salvation.  ...  I  was  struck  by  another  thought; 
in  spite  of  our  separation,  in  spite  of  her  marriage  and  mine, 
she  was  still  nearer  to  me  —  far  nearer  —  than  any  other 
being. 

Later,  I  sought  her  out.  She  looked  up  at  me  amusedly 
from  the  window-seat  in  our  living-room,  where  she  had  been 
talking  to  the  Scherer  girls. 

"Well,  how  did  you  get  along  with  Hilda?"  she  asked. 
"I  thought  I  saw  you  struggling." 


294  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"She's  somewhat  disconcerting,"  I  said.  "I  felt  as  if  she 
were  turning  me  inside  out." 

Nancy  laughed. 

"Hilda's  a  discovery  —  a  genius.  I'm  going  to  have 
them  to  dinner  myself." 

"And  Adolf?"  I  inquired.  "I  believe  she  thought  you 
were  preparing  to  run  away  with  him.  You  seemed  to  have 
him  hypnotized." 

"  I'm  afraid  your  great  man  won't  be  able  to  stand  —  ele 
vation,"  she  declared.  "He'll  have  vertigo.  He's  even  got 
it  now,  at  this  little  height,  and  when  he  builds  his  palace  on 
Grant  Avenue,  and  later  moves  to  New  York,  I'm  afraid 
he'll  wobble  even  more." 
,  •  "Is  he  thinking  of  doing  all  that ? "  I  asked. 

"I  merely  predict  New  York  —  it's  inevitable,"  she  re 
plied.  "Grant  Avenue,  yes;  he  wants  me  to  help  him 
choose  a  lot.  He  gave  me  ten  thousand  dollars  for  our 
Orphans'  Home,  but  on  the  whole  I  think  I  prefer  Hilda  — 
even  if  she  doesn't  approve  of  me." 

Nancy  rose.  The  Scherers  were  going.  While  Mr. 
Scherer  pressed  my  hand  in  a  manner  that  convinced  me  of 
his  gratitude,  Hilda  was  bidding  an  affectionate  good  night 
to  Maude.  A  few  moments  later  she  bore  her  husband  and 
daughters  away,  and  we  heard  the  tap-tap  of  her  cane  on 
the  walk  outside.  , 


XVII 


THE  remembrance  of  that  dinner  when  with  my  conni 
vance  the  Scherers  made  their  social  debut  is  associated  in 
my  mind  with  the  coming  of  the  fulness  of  that  era,  mad  and 
brief,  when  gold  rained  down  like  manna  from  our  sooty 
skies.  Even  the  church  was  prosperous ;  the  Rev.  Carey 
Heddon,  our  new  minister,  was  well  abreast  of  the  times, 
typical  of  the  new  and  efficient  Christianity  that  has 
finally  buried  the  hatchet  with  enlightened  self-interest.  He 
looked  like  a  young  and  prosperous  man  of  business,  and 
indeed  he  was  one. 

The  fame  of  our  city  spread  even  across  the  Atlantic, 
reaching  obscure  hamlets  in  Europe,  where  villagers  gathered 
up  their  lares  and  penates,  mortgaged  their  homes,  and 
bought  steamship  tickets  from  philanthropists,  —  philan 
thropists  in  diamonds.  Our  Huns  began  to  arrive,  their 
Attilas  unrecognized  among  them :  to  drive  our  honest 
Americans  and  Irish  and  Germans  out  of  the  mills  by  "  low 
ering  the  standard  of  living."  Still  —  according  to  the 
learned  economists  in  our  universities,  enlightened  self-in 
terest  triumphed.  Had  not  the  honest  Americans  and  Ger 
mans  become  foremen  and  even  presidents  of  corporations? 
What  greater  vindication  for  their  philosophy  could  be 
desired  ? 

The  very  aspect  of  the  city  changed  like  magic.  New 
buildings  sprang  high  in  the  air ;  the  Reliance  Trust  (Mr. 
Grierson's),  the  Scherer  Building,  the  Hambleton  Building ; 
a  new  hotel,  the  Ashuela,  took  proper  care  of  our  visitors 
from  the  East,  —  a  massive,  grey  stone,  thousand-awninged 
affair  on  Boyne  Street,  with  a  grill  where  it  became  the  fashion 

295 


296  A  PAR  COUNTRY 

to  go  for  supper  after  the  play,  and  a  head  waiter  who  knew 
in  a  few  weeks  everyone  worth  knowing. 

To  return  for  a  moment  to  the  Huns."?  Maude  had  ex 
pressed  a  desire  to  see  a  mill,  and  we  went,  one  afternoon, 
in  Mr.  Scherer's  carriage  to  Steelville,  with  Mr.  Scherer 
himself,  —  a  bewildering,  educative,  almost  terrifying  ex- 
'  perience  amidst  fumes  and  flames,  gigantic  forces  and  titanic 
weights.  It  seemed  a  marvel  that  we  escaped  being  crushed 
or  burned  alive  in  those  huge  steel  buildings  reverberating 
with  sound.  They  appeared  a  very  bedlam  of  chaos,  instead 
of  the  triumph  of  order,  organization  and  human  skill.  Mr. 
Scherer  was  very  proud  of  it  all,  and  ours  was  a  sort  of  tri 
umphal  procession,  accompanied  by  superintendents,  man 
agers  and  other  factotums.  I  thought  of  my  childhood  image 
of  Shadrach,  Meshach  and  Abednego,  and  our  progress  through 
the  flames  seemed  no  less  remarkable  and  miraculous. 

Maude,  with  alarm  in  her  eyes,  kept  very  close  to  me,  as 
I  supplemented  the  explanations  they  gave  her.  I  had 
been  there  many  times  before. 

"Why,  Hugh,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  seem  to  know  a  lot 
about  it!" 

Mr.  Scherer  laughed. 

"  He's  had  to  talk  about  it  once  or  twice  in  court  —  eh, 
Hugh  ?  You  didn't  realize  how  clever  your  husband  was  — 
did  you,  Mrs.  Paret?" 

"But  this  is  so  —  complicated,"  she  replied.  "It  is  over 
whelming." 

"When  I  found  out  how  much  trouble  he  had  taken  to 
learn  about  my  business,"  added  Mr.  Scherer,  "there  was 
only  one  thing  to  do.  Make  him  my  lawyer.  Hugh,  you 
have  the  floor,  and  explain  the  open-hearth  process." 

I  had  almost  forgotten  the  Huns.  I  saw  Maude  gazing 
at  them  with  a  new  kind  of  terror.  And  when  we  sat  at 
home  that  evening  they  still  haunted  her. 

"Somehow,  I  can't  bear  to  think  about  them,"  she  said. 
*'  I'm  sure  we'll  have  to  pay  for  it,  some  day." 

"Pay  for  what?"  I  asked. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  297 

"For  making  them  work  that  way.  And  twelve  hours! 
It  can't  be  right,  while  we  have  so  much,  and  are  so  comfort 
able."  -j^ 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  I  exclaimed.  "They're  used  to  it. 
They  think  themselves  lucky  to  get  the  work  —  and  they 
are.  Besides,  you  give  them  credit  for  a  sensitiveness  that 
they  don't  possess.  They  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  with 
such  a  house  as  this  if  they  had  it." 

"I  never  realized  before  that  our  happiness  and  comfort 
were  built  on  such  foundations,"  she  said,  ignoring  my 
remark. 

"  You  must  have  seen  your  father's  operatives,  in  Elking- 
ton,  many  times  a  week." 

"  I  suppose  I  was  too  young  to  think  about  such  things," 
she  reflected.  "  Besides,  I  used  to  be  sorry  for  them,  some 
times.  But  these  men  at  the  steel  mills  —  I  can't  tell  you 
what  I  feel  about  them.  The  sight  of  their  great  bodies  and 
their  red,  sullen  faces  brought  home  to  me  the  cruelty  of 
life.  Did  you  notice  how  some  of  them  stared  at  us,  as 
though  they  were  but  half  awake  in  the  heat,  with  that  glow 
on  their  faces  ?  It  made  me  afraid  —  afraid  that  they'll 
wake  up  some  day,  and  then  they  will  be  terrible.  I  thought 
of  the  children.  It  seems  not  only  wicked,  but  mad  to  bring 
ignorant  foreigners  over  here  and  make  them  slaves  like 
that,  and  so  many  of  them  are  hurt  and  maimed.  I  can't 
forget  them." 

"You're  talking  Socialism,"  I  said  crossly,  wondering 
whether  Lucia  had  taken  it  up  as  her  latest  fad. 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not,"  said  Maude,  "I  don't  know  what 
Socialism  is.  I'm  talking  about  something  that  anyone 
who  is  not  dazzled  by  all  this  luxury  we  are  living  in  might 
be  able  to  see,  about  something  which,  when  it  comes,  we 
shan't  be  able  to  help." 

I  ridiculed  this.  The  prophecy  itself  did  not  disturb  me 
half  as  much  as  the  fact  that  she  had  made  it,  as  this  new 
evidence  that  she  was  beginning  to  think  for  herself,  and 
along  lines  so  different  from  my  own  development. 


298  A  FAR  COUNTRY 


While  it  lasted,  before  novelists,  playwrights,  professors 
and  ministers  of  the  Gospel  abandoned  their  proper  sphere 
to  destroy  it,  that  Golden  Age  was  heaven ;  the  New  Jeru 
salem  •• —  in  which  we  had  ceased  to  believe  —  would  have  been 
in  the  nature  of  an  anticlimax  to  any  of  our  archangels  of 
finance  who  might  have  attained  it.  The  streets  of  our  own 
city  turned  out  to  be  gold ;  gold  likewise  the  acres  of  unused, 
scrubby  land  on  our  outskirts,  as  the  incident  of  the  River 
side  Franchise  —  which  I  am  about  to  relate  —  amply 
proved. 

That  scheme  originated  in  the  alert  mind  of  Mr.  Fred 
erick  Grierson,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  has  since 
become  notorious  in  the  eyes  of  a  virtue-stricken  public,  it 
was  entered  into  with  all  innocence  at  the  time :  most  of 
the  men  who  were  present  at  the  "magnate's"  table  at  the 
Boyne  Club  the  day  Mr.  Grierson  broached  it  will  vouch 
for  this.  He  casually  asked  Mr.  Dickinson  if  he  had  ever 
noticed  a  tract  lying  on  the  river  about  two  miles  beyond 
the  Heights,  opposite  what  used  to  be  in  the  old  days  a  road 
house. 

"This  city  is  growing  so  fast,  Leonard,"  said  Grierson, 
lighting  a  special  cigar  the  Club  kept  for  him,  "that  it 
might  pay  a  few  of  us  to  get  together  and  buy  that  tract, 
have  the  city  put  in  streets  and  sewers  and  sell  it  in  building 
lots.  I  think  I  can  get  most  of  it  at  less  than  three  hundred 
dollars  an  acre." 

Mr.  Dickinson  was  interested.  So  were  Mr.  Ogilvy  and 
Ralph  Hambleton,  and  Mr.  Scherer,  who  chanced  to  be 
there.  Anything  Fred  Grierson  had  to  say  on  the  question 
of  real  estate  was  always  interesting.  He  went  on  to  de 
scribe  the  tract,  its  size  and  location. 

"That's  all  very  well,  Fred,"  Dickinson  objected  pres 
ently,  "but  how  are  your  prospective  householders  going 
to  get  out  there?" 

"Just  what  I  was  coming  to,"  cried  Grierson,  trium- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  299 

phantly,  "we'll  get  a  franchise,  and  build  a  street-railroad 
out  Maplewood  Avenue,  an  extension  of  the  Park  Street 
line.  We  can  get  the  franchise  for  next  to  nothing,  if  we 
work  it  right  "  (Mr.  Grierson's  eye  fell  on  me),  "  and  sell  it 
out  to  the  public,  if  you  underwrite  it,  for  two  million  or  so." 

"Well,  you've  got  your  nerve  with  you,  Fred,  as  usual," 
said  Dickinson.  But  he  rolled  his  cigar  in  his  mouth,  an 
indication,  to  those  who  knew  him  well,  that  he  was  con 
sidering  the  matter.  When  Leonard  Dickinson  didn't  say 
"no"  at  once,  there  was  hope.  "What  do  you  think  the 
property  holders  on  Maplewood  Avenue  would  say  ?  Wasn't 
it  understood,  when  that  avenue  was  laid  out,  that  it  was  to 
form  part  of  the  system  of  boulevards?" 

"What  difference  does  it  make  what  they  say?"  Ralph 
interposed. 

Dickinson  smiled.  He,  too,  had  an  exaggerated  respect 
for  Ralph.  We  all  thought  the  proposal  daring,  but  in  no 
way  amazing ;  the  public  existed  to  be  sold  things  to,  and 
what  did  it  matter  if  the  Maplewood  residents,  as  Ralph 
said,  and  the  City  Improvement  League  protested? 

Perry  Blackwood  was  the  Secretary  of  the  City  Improve 
ment  League,  the  object  of  which  was  to  beautify  the  city 
by  laying  out  a  system  of  parkways. 

The  next  day  some  of  us  gathered  in  Dickinson's  office 
and  decided  that  Grierson  should  go  ahead  and  get  the 
options.  This  was  done ;  not,  of  course,  in  Grierson's  name. 
The  next  move,  before  the  formation  of  the  Riverside  Com 
pany,  was  to  "see"  Mr.  Judd  Jason.  The  success  or  failure 
of  the  enterprise  was  in  his  hands.  Mahomet  must  go  to 
the  mountain,  and  I  went  to  Monahan's  saloon,  first  having 
made  an  appointment.  It  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  been 
there  since  I  had  made  that  first  memorable  visit,  but  I 
never  quite  got  over  the  feeling  of  a  neophyte  before  Buddha, 
though  I  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  analyze  the  reason,  —  that 
in  Mr.  Jason  I  was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  concrete 
embodiment  of  the  philosophy  I  had  adopted,  the  logical 
consequence  of  enlightened  self-interest.  If  he  had  ever 


300  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

heard  of  it,  he  would  have  made  no  pretence  of  being  any 
thing  else.  Greatness,  declares  some  modern  philosopher, 
has  no  connection  with  virtue ;  it  is  the  continued,  strong 
and  logical  expression  of  some  instinct;  in  Mr.  Jason's 
case,  the  predatory  instinct.  And  like  a  true  artist,  he 
loved  his  career  for  itself  —  not  for  what  its  fruits  could  buy. 
He  might  have  built  a  palace  on  the  Heights  with  the  tolls 
he  took  from  the  disreputable  houses  of  the  city;  he  was 
contented  with  Monahan's  saloon :  nor  did  he  seek  to  pro 
pitiate  a  possible  God  by  endowing  churches  and  hospitals 
with  a  portion  of  his  income.  Try  though  I  might,  I  never 
could  achieve  the  perfection  of  this  man's  contempt  for  all 
other  philosophies.  The  very  fact  of  my  going  there  in 
secret  to  that  dark  place  of  his  from  out  of  the  bright,  respect 
able  region  in  which  I  lived  was  in  itself  an  acknowledgment 
of  this.  I  thought  him  a  thief  —  a  necessary  thief  —  and 
he  knew  it :  he  was  indifferent  to  it ;  and  it  amused  him, 
I  think,  to  see  clinging  to  me,  when  I  entered  his  presence, 
shreds  of  that  morality  which  those  of  my  world  who  dealt 
with  him  thought  so  needful  for  the  sake  of  decency. 

He  was  in  bed,  reading  newspapers,  as  usual.  An  empty 
coffee-cup  and  a  plate  were  on  the  littered  table. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,  Paret,"  he  said.  "What  do  you 
hear  from  the  Senator?" 

I  sat  down,  and  gave  him  the  news  of  Mr.  Watling.  He 
seemed,  as  usual,  distrait,  betraying  no  curiosity  as  to  the 
object  of  my  call,  his  lean,  brown  fingers  playing  with  the 
newspapers  on  his  lap.  Suddenly,  he  flashed  out  at  me  one 
of  those  remarks  which  produced  the  uncanny  conviction 
that,  so  far  as  affairs  in  the  city  were  concerned,  he  was 
omniscient. 

"I  hear  somebody  has  been  getting  options  on  that  tract 
of  land  beyond  the  Heights,  on  the  river." 

He  had  "focussed."  i 

"How  did  you  hear  that?"  I  asked. 

He  smiled.  . 

"It's  Grierson,  ain't  it?" 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  301 

"Yes,  it's  Grierson,"  I  said. 

"How  are  you  going  to  get  your  folks  out  there?"  he 
demanded. 

"That's  what  I've  come  to  see  you  about.  We  want  a 
franchise  for  Maplewood  Avenue." 

"  Maplewood  Avenue ! "  He  lay  back  with  his  eyes 
;  closed,  as  though  trying  to  visualize  such  a  colossal  pro 
posal.  .  .  . 

When  I  left  him,  two  hours  later,  the  details  were  all 
arranged,  down  to  Mr.  Jason's  consideration  from  the 
Riverside  Company  and  the  "fee"  which  his  lawyer,  Mr. 
Bitter,  was  to  have  for  "presenting  the  case"  before  the 
Board  of  Aldermen.  I  went  back  to  lunch  at  the  Boyne 
Club,  and  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  my  friends. 
The  next  week  the  Riverside  Company  was  formed,  and  I 
made  out  a  petition  to  the  Board  of  Aldermen  for  a  fran 
chise;  Mr.  Bitter  appeared  and  argued:  in  short,  the 
procedure  so  familiar  to  modern  students  of  political  affairs 
was  gone  through.  The  Maplewood  Avenue  residents  rose 
en  masse,  supported  by  the  City  Improvement  League. 
Perry  Blackwood,  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  the  petition,  turned 
up  at  my  office.  By  this  time  I  was  occupying  Mr.  Wat- 
ling's  room. 

"Look  here,"  he  began,  as  soon  as  the  office-boy  had 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  "this  is  going  it  a  little  too 
strong." 

"What  is?"  I  asked,  leaning  back  in  my  chair  and  sur 
veying  him. 

"This  proposed  Maplewood  Avenue  Franchise.  Hugh," 
he  said,  "you  and  I  have  been  friends  a  good  many  years. 
Lucia  and  I  are  devoted  to  Maude." 

I  did  not  reply. 

"I've  seen  all  along  that  we've  been  growing  apart,"  he 
added  sadly.  "  You've  got  certain  ideas  about  things  which 
I  can't  share.  I  suppose  I'm  old  fashioned.  I  can't  trust 
myself  to  tell  you  what  I  think  —  what  Tom  and  I  think 
about  this  deal." 


302  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Go  ahead,  Perry,"  I  said. 

He  got  up,  plainly  agitated,  and  walked  to  the  window. 
Then  he  turned  to  me  appealingly.  I 

"  Get  out  of  it,  for  God's  sake  get  out  of  it,  before  it's  too 
late.  For  your  own  sake,  for  Maude's,  for  the  children's. 
You  don't  realize  what  you  are  doing.  You  may  not  believe 
me,  but  the  time  will  come  when  these  fellows  you  are  in 
with  will  be  repudiated  by  the  community,  —  their  money 
won't  help  them.  Tom  and  I  are  the  best  friends  you  have," 
he  added,  a  little  irrelevantly. 

"And  you  think  I'm  going  to  the  dogs." 

"Now  don't  take  it  the  wrong  way,"  he  urged. 

"What  is  it  you  object  to  about  the  Maplewood  fran 
chise?"  I  asked.  "If  you'll  look  at  a  map  of  the  city,  you'll 
see  that  development  is  bound  to  come  on  that  side.  Maple- 
wood  Avenue  is  the  natural  artery,  somebody  will  build  a  line 
out  there,  and  if  you'd  rather  have  eastern  capitalists  — " 

"Why  are  you  going  to  get  this  franchise?"  he  demanded. 
"Because  we  haven't  a  decent  city  charter,  and  a  healthy 
public  spirit,  you  fellows  are  buying  it  from  a  corrupt  city 
boss,  and  bribing  a  corrupt  board  of  aldermen.  That's  the 
plain  language  of  it.  And  it's  only  fair  to  warn  you  that  I'm 
going  to  say  so,  openly." 

"Be  sensible,"  I  answered.  "We've  got  to  have  street 
railroads,  —  your  family  has  one.  We  know  what  the 
aldermen  are,  what  political  conditions  are.  If  you  feel 
this  way  about  it,  the  thing  to  do  is  to  try  to  change  them. 
But  why  blame  me  for  getting  a  franchise  for  a  company  in 
the  only  manner  in  which,  under  present  conditions,  a  fran 
chise  can  be  got  ?  Do  you  want  the  city  to  stand  still  ?  If 
not,  we  have  to  provide  for  the  new  population." 

"Every  time  you  bribe  these  rascals  for  a  franchise  you 
entrench  them,"  he  cried.  "You  make  it  more  difficult 
to  oust  them.  But  you  mark  my  words,  we  shall  get  rid 
of  them  some  day,  and  when  that  fight  comes,  I  want  to  be 
in  it." 

He  had  grown  very  much  excited ;   and  it  was  as  though 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  303 

this  excitement  suddenly  revealed  to  me  the  full  extent  of 
the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  him  since  he  had  left 
college.  As  he  stood  facing  me,  almost  glaring  at  me  through 
his  eye-glasses,  I  beheld  a  slim,  nervous,  fault-finding  doc 
trinaire,  incapable  of  understanding  the  world  as  it  was, 
lacking  the  force  of  his  pioneer  forefathers.  I  rather  pitied 
him. 

"I'm  sorry  we  can't  look  at  this  thing  alike,  Perry,"  I 
told  him.  "You've  said  some  pretty  hard  things,  but  I 
realize  that  you  hold  your  point  of  view  in  good  faith,  and 
that  you  have  come  to  me  as  an  old  friend.  I  hope  it  won't 
make  any  difference  in  our  personal  relations." 

"I  don't  see  how  it  can  help  making  a  difference,"  he 
answered  slowly.  His  excitement  had  cooled  abruptly: 
he  seemed  dazed.  At  this  moment  my  private  stenographer 
entered  to  inform  me  that  I  was  being  called  up  on  the  tele 
phone  from  New  York.  "Well,  you  have  more  important 
affairs  to  attend  to,  I  won't  bother  you  any  more,"  he  added. 

"Hold  on,"  I  exclaimed,  "this  call  can  wait.  I'd  like  to 
talk  it  over  with  you." 

"I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  be  any  use,  Hugh,"  he  said,  and 
went  out. 

After  talking  with  the  New  York  client  whose  local  in 
terests  I  represented  I  sat  thinking  over  the  conversation 
with  Perry.  Considering  Maude's  intimacy  with  and  affec 
tion  for  the  Blackwoods,  the  affair  was  awkward,  opening  up 
many  uncomfortable  possibilities;  and  it  was  the  prospect 
of  discomfort  that  bothered  me  rather  than  regret  for  the 
probable  loss  of  Perry's  friendship.  I  still  believed  myself 
to  have  an  affection  for  him :  undoubtedly  this  was  a  senti 
mental  remnant.  .  .  . 

That  evening  after  dinner  Tom  came  in  alone,  and  I 
suspected  that  Perry  had  sent  him.  He  was  fidgety,  ill  at 
ease,  and  presently  asked  if  I  could  see  him  a  moment  in 
my  study.  Maude's  glance  followed  us. 

"Say,  Hugh,  this  is  pretty  stiff,"  he  blurted  out  characteris 
tically,  when  the  door  was  closed. 


304  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"I  suppose  you  mean  the  Riverside  Franchise,"  I  said. 

He  looked  up  at  me,  miserably,  from  the  chair  into  which 
he  had  sunk,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"You'll  forgive  me  for  talking  about  it,  won't  you?  You 
used  to  lecture  me  once  in  a  while  at  Cambridge,  you  know." 

"That's  all  right  —  go  ahead,"  I  replied,  trying  to  speak 
amiably. 

"You  know  I've  always  admired  you,  Hugh,  —  I  never 
had  your  ability,"  he  began  painfully,  "you've  gone  ahead 
pretty  fast,  —  the  truth  is  that  Perry  and  I  have  been  worried 
about  you  for  some  time.  We've  tried  not  to  be  too  serious 
in  showing  it,  but  we've  felt  that  these  modern  business 
methods  were  getting  into  your  system  without  your  realiz 
ing  it.  There  are  some  things  a  man's  friends  can  tell  him, 
and  it's  their  duty  to  tell  him.  Good  God,  haven't  you  got 
enough,  Hugh,  —  enough  success  and  enough  money,  — 
without  going  into  a  thing  like  this  Riverside  scheme?" 

I  was  intensely  annoyed,  if  not  angry;  and  I  hesitated  a 
moment  to  calm  myself. 

"Tom,  you  don't  understand  my  position,"  I  said.  "I'm 
willing  to  discuss  it  with  you,  now  that  you've  opened  up  the 
subject.  Perry's  been  talking  to  you,  I  can  see  that.  I 
think  Perry's  got  queer  ideas,  —  to  be  plain  with  you,  — • 
and  they're  getting  queerer." 

He  sat  down  again  while,  with  what  I  deemed  a  rather 
exemplary  patience,  I  went  over  the  arguments  in  favour  of 
my  position ;  and  as  I  talked,  it  clarified  in  my  own  mind. 
It  was  impossible  to  apply  to  business  an  individual  code  of 
ethics,  —  even  to  Perry's  business,  to  Tom's  business :  the 
two  were  incompatible,  and  the  sooner  one  recognized  that 
the  better :  the  whole  structure  of  business  was  built  up  on 
natural,  as  opposed  to  ethical  law.  We  had  arrived  at  an 
era  of  frankness  —  that  was  the  truth  —  and  the  sooner  we 
faced  this  truth  the  better  for  our  peace  of  mind.  Much 
as  we  might  deplore  the  political  system  that  had  grown  up, 
we  had  to  acknowledge,  if  we  were  consistent,  that  it  was  the 
base  on  which  our  prosperity  was  built.  I  was  rather  proud 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  305 

of  having  evolved  this  argument ;  it  fortified  my  own  peace 
of  mind,  which  had  been  disturbed  by  Tom's  attitude.  I 
began  to  pity  him.  He  had  not  been  very  successful  in  life, 
and  with  the  little  he  earned,  added  to  Susan's  income,  I 
knew  that  a  certain  ingenuity  was  required  to  make  both 
ends  meet.  He  sat  listening  with  a  troubled  look.  A  passing 
phase  of  feeling  clouded  for  a  brief  moment  my  confidence 
when  there  arose  in  my  mind  an  unbidden  memory  of  my 
youth,  of  my  father.  He,  too,  had  mistrusted  my  ingenuity. 
I  recalled  how  I  had  out-manoeuvred  him  and  gone  to  col 
lege  ;  I  remembered  the  March  day  so  long  ago,  when  Tom 
and  I  had  stood  on  the  corner  debating  how  to  deceive  him, 
and  it  was  I  who  had  suggested  the  nice  distinction  between 
a  boat  and  a  raft.  Well,  my  father's  illogical  attitude 
towards  boyhood  nature,  towards  human  nature,  had  forced 
me  into  that  lie,  just  as  the  senseless  attitude  of  the  public 
to-day  forced  business  into  a  position  of  hypocrisy. 

"Well,  that's  clever,"  he  said,  slowly  and  perplexedly, 
when  I  had  finished.  "It's  damned  clever,  but  somehow  it 
looks  to  me  all  wrong.  I  can't  pick  it  to  pieces."  He  got 
up  rather  heavily.  "I  —  I  guess  I  ought  to  be  going. 
Susan  doesn't  know  where  I  am." 

I  was  exasperated.  It  was  clear,  though  he  did  not  say 
so,  that  he  thought  me  dishonest.  The  pain  in  his  eyes 
had  deepened. 

"If  you  feel  that  way — "  I  said. 

^  "Oh,  God,  I  don't  know  how  I  feel !"  he  cried.  "You're 
the  oldest  friend  I  have,  Hugh,  —  I  can't  forget  that.  We'll 
•  say  nothing  more  about  it."  He  picked  up  his  hat  and  a 
moment  later  I  heard  the  front  door  close  behind  him.  I 
stood  for  a  while  stock-still,  and  then  went  into  the  living- 
room,  where  Maude  was  sewing. 

"WTiy,  where's  Tom?"  she  inquired,  looking  up. 

"Oh,  he  went  home.  He  said  Susan  didn't  know  where 
he  was." 

"How  queer!  Hugh,  was  there  anything  the  matter? 
Is  he  in  trouble?"  she  asked  anxiously. 


306  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

I  stood  toying  with  a  book-mark,  reflecting.  She  must 
inevitably  come  to  suspect  that  something  had  happened, 
and  it  would  be  as  well  to  fortify  her. 

"The  trouble  is,"  I  said  after  a  moment,  "that  Perry  and 
Tom  would  like  to  run  modern  business  on  the  principle 
of  a  charitable  institution.  Unfortunately,  it  is  not  practical. 
They're  upset  because  I  have  been  retained  by  a  syndicate 
whose  object  is  to  develop  some  land  out  beyond  Maplewood 
Avenue.  They've  bought  the  land,  and  we  are  asking  the 
city  to  give  us  a  right  to  build  a  line  out  Maplewood  Avenue, 
which  is  the  obvious  way  to  go.  Perry  says  it  will  spoil 
the  avenue.  That's  nonsense,  in  the  first  place.  The 
avenue  is  wide,  and  the  tracks  will  be  in  a  grass  plot  in  the 
centre.  For  the  sake  of  keeping  tracks  off  that  avenue  he 
would  deprive  people  of  attractive  homes  at  a  small  cost, 
of  the  good  air  they  can  get  beyond  the  heights:  he  would 
stunt  the  city's  development." 

"That  does  seem  a  little  unreasonable,"  Maude  admitted. 
"Is  that  all  he  objects  to?" 

"No,  he  thinks  it  an  outrage  because,  in  order  to  get  the 
franchise,  we  have  to  deal  with  the  city  politicians.  Well, 
it  so  happens,  and  always  has  happened,  that  politics  have 
been  controlled  by  leaders,  whom  Perry  calls  'bosses,'  and 
they  are  not  particularly  attractive  men.  You  wouldn't 
care  to  associate  with  them.  My  father  once  refused  to  be 
mayor  of  the  city  for  this  reason.  But  they  are  necessities. 
If  the  people  didn't  want  them,  they'd  take  enough  interest 
in  elections  to  throw  them  out.  But  since  the  people  do 
want  them,  and  they  are  there,  every  time  a  new  street-car 
line  or  something  of  that  sort  needs  to  be  built  they  have  to 
be  consulted,  because,  without  their  influence  nothing  could 
be  done.  On  the  other  hand,  these  politicians  cannot  afford 
to  ignore  men  of  local  importance  like  Leonard  Dickinson  and 
Adolf  Scherer  and  Miller  Gorse  who  represent  financial 
substance  and  responsibility.  If  a  new  street-railroad  is 
'to  be  built,  these  are  the  logical  ones  to  build  it.  You  have 
just  the  same  situation  in  Elkington,  on  a  smaller  scale. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  307 

Your  family,  the  Hutchinses,  own  the  mills  and  the  street- 
railroads,  and  any  new  enterprise  that  presents  itself  is  done 
with  their  money,  because  they  are  reliable  and  sound." 

"It  isn't  pleasant  to  think  that  there  are  such  people  as 
the  politicians,  is  it?"  said  Maude,  slowly. 

" Unquestionably  not,"  I  agreed.  "It  isn't  pleasant  to 
think  of  some  other  crude  forces  in  the  world.  But  they 
exist,  and  they  have  to  be  dealt  with.  Suppose  the  United 
States  should  refuse  to  trade  with  Russia  because,  from  our 
republican  point  of  view,  we  regarded  her  government  as 
tyrannical  and  oppressive?  or  to  cooperate  with  England 
in  some  undertaking  for  the  world's  benefit  because  we 
contended  that  she  ruled  India  with  an  iron  hand  ?  In  such  a 
case,  our  President  and  Senate  would  be  scoundrels  for  mak 
ing  and  ratifying  a  treaty.  Yet  here  are  Perry  and  Tom, 
and  no  doubt  Susan  and  Lucia,  accusing  me,  a  lifetime  friend, 
of  dishonesty  because  I  happen  to  be  counsel  for  a  syndicate 
that  wishes  to  build  a  street-railroad  for  the  convenience  of 
the  people  of  the  city." 

"Oh,  no,  not  of  dishonesty !"  she  exclaimed.  "I  can't  — 
I  won't  believe  they  would  do  that." 

"Pretty  near  it,"  I  said.  "If  I  listened  to  them,  I  should 
have  to  give  up  the  law  altogether." 

"Sometimes,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice,  "sometimes  I 
wish  you  would." 

"  I  might  have  expected  that  you  would  take  their  point 
of  view." 

As  I  was  turning  away  she  got  up  quickly  and  put  her  hand 
on  my  shoulder. 

"Hugh,  please  don't  say  such  things  —  you've  no  right 
to  say  them." 

"And  you?"  I  asked. 

"Don't  you  see,"  she  continued  pleadingly,  "don't  you 
see  that  we  are  growing  apart?  That's  the  only  reason  I 
said  what  I  did.  It  isn't  that  I  don't  trust  you,  that  I  don't 
want  you  to  have  your  work,  that  I  demand  all  of  you.  I 
know  a  woman  can't  ask  that,  —  can't  have  it.  But  if 


308  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

you  would  only  give  me  —  give  the  children  just  a  little, 
if  I  could  feel  that  we  meant  something  to  you  and  that  — 
this  other  wasn't  gradually  becoming  everything,  wasn't 
absorbing  you  more  and  more,  killing  the  best  part  of  you. 
It's  poisoning  our  marriage,  it's  poisoning  all  your  relation 
ships." 

In  that  appeal  the  real  Maude,  the  Maude  of  the  early 
days  of  our  marriage  flashed  forth  again  so  vividly  that  1  '» 
was  taken  aback.  I  understood  that  she  had  had  herself 
under  control,  had  worn  a  mask  —  a  mask  I  had  forced  on 
her;  and  the  revelation  of  the  continued  existence  of  that 
other  Maude  was  profoundly  disturbing.  Was  it  true,  as 
she  said,  that  n*y  absorption  in  the  great  game  of  modern 
business,  in  the  modern  American  philosophy  it  implied 
was  poisoning  my  marriage  ?  or  was  it  that  my  marriage  had 
failed  to  satisfy  and  absorb  me  ?  I  was  touched  —  but 
sentimentally  touched :  I  felt  that  this  was  a  situation  that 
ought  to  touch  me ;  I  didn't  wish  to  face  it,  as  usual :  I 
couldn't  acknowledge  to  myself  that  anything  was  really 
wrong.  .  .  I  patted  her  on  the  shoulder,  I  bent  over  and 
kissed  her. 

"A  man  in  my  position  can't  altogether  choose  just  how 
busy  he  will  be,"  I  said  smiling.  "Matters  are  thrust  upon 
me  which  I  have  to  accept,  and  I  can't  help  thinking  about 
some  of  them  when  I  come  home.  But  we'll  go  off  for  a 
real  vacation  soon,  Maude,  to  Europe  —  and  take  the  chil 
dren." 

"Oh,  I  hope  so,"  she  said.  .  .  . 


From  this  time  on,  as  may  be  supposed,  our  intercourse 
with  both  the  Blackwoods  began  to  grow  less  frequent, 
although  Maude  continued  to  see  a  great  deal  of  Lucia ;  and 
when  we  did  dine  in  their  company,  or  they  with  us,  it  was 
quite  noticeable  that  their  former  raillery  was  suppressed. 
Even  Tom  had  ceased  to  refer  to  me  as  the  young  Napoleon 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  309 

of  the  Law :  he  clung  to  me,  but  he  too  kept  silent  on  the 
subject  of  business.  Maude  of  course  must  have  noticed 
this,  must  have  sensed  the  change  of  atmosphere,  have  known 
that  the  Blackwoods,  at  least,  were  maintaining  appearances 
for  her  sake.  She  did  not  speak  to  me  of  the  change,  nor 
I  to  her ;  but  when  I  thought  of  her  silence,  it  was  to  suspect 
that  she  was  weighing  the  question  which  had  led  up  to  the 
difference  between  Perry  and  me,  and  I  had  a  suspicion  that 
the  fact  that  I  was  her  husband  would  not  affect  her  ulti 
mate  decision.  This  faculty  of  hers  of  thinking  things  out 
instead  of  accepting  my  views  and  decisions  was,  as  the  saying 
goes,  getting  a  little  "on  my  nerves"  :  that  she  of  all  women 
should  have  developed  it  was  a  recurring  and  unpleasant 
surprise.  I  began  at  times  to  pity  myself  a  little,  to  feel 
the  need  of  sympathetic  companionship  —  feminine  com 
panionship.  .  .  . 

I  shall  not  go  into  the  details  of  the  procurement  of  what 
became  known  as  the  Riverside  Franchise.  In  spite  of  the 
Maplewood  residents,  of  the  City  Improvement  League  and 
individual  protests,  we  obtained  it  with  absurd  ease.  In 
deed  Perry  Blackwood  himself  appeared  before  the  Public 
Utilities  Committee  of  the  Board  of  Aldermen,  and  was 
listened  to  with  deference  and  gravity  while  he  discoursed 
on  the  defacement  of  a  beautiful  boulevard  to  satisfy  the 
greed  of  certain  private  individuals.  Mr.  Otto  Bitter  and 
myself,  who  appeared  for  the  petitioners,  had  a  similar  re 
ception.  That  struggle  was  a  tempest  in  a  tea-pot.  The 
reformer  raged,  but  he  was  feeble  in  those  days,  and  the 
great  public  believed  what  it  read  in  the  respectable  news 
papers.  In  Mr.  Judah  B.  Tallant's  newspaper,  for  instance, 
the  Morning  Era,  there  were  semiplayful  editorials  about 
"obstructionists."  Mr.  Perry  Blackwood  was  a  well-mean 
ing,  able  gentleman  of  an  old  family,  etc.,  but  with  a  sentiment 
for  horse-cars.  The  Era  published  also  the  resolutions  which 
(with  interesting  spontaneity !)  had  been  passed  by  our  Board 
of  Trade  and  Chamber  of  Commerce  and  other  influential 
bodies  in  favour  of  the  franchise ;  the  idea  —  unknown  to 


310  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

the  public  —  of  Mr.  Hugh  Paret,  who  wrote  drafts  of  the 
resolutions  and  suggested  privately  to  Mr.  Leonard  Dickin 
son  that  a  little  enthusiasm  from  these  organizations  might 
be  helpful.  Mr.  Dickinson  accepted  the  suggestion  eagerly, 
wondering  why  he  hadn't  thought  of  it  himself.  The  reso 
lutions  carried  some  weight  with  a  public  that  did  not  know 
its  right  hand  from  its  left. 

After  fitting  deliberation,  one  evening  in  February  the 
Board  of  Aldermen  met  and  granted  the  franchise.  Not 
unanimously,  oh,  no  !  Mr.  Jason  was  not  so  simple  as  that ! 
No  further  visits  to  Monahan's  saloon  on  my  part,  in  this 
connection  were  necessary ;  but  Mr.  Otto  Bitter  met  me  one 
day  in  the  hotel  with  a  significant  message  from  the  boss. 

"It's  all  fixed,"  he  informed  me.  "Murphy  and  Scott 
and  Ottheimer  and  Grady  and  Loth  are  the  decoys.  You 
understand  ?  " 

"I  think  I  gather  your  meaning,"  I  said. 

Mr.  Bitter  smiled  by  pulling  down  one  corner  of  a  crooked 
mouth. 

"They'll  vote  against  it  on  principle,  you  know,"  he  added. 
"  We  get  a  little  something  from  the  Maple  Avenue  residents." 

I've  forgotten  what  the  Riverside  Franchise  cost.  The 
sum  was  paid  in  a  lump  sum  to  Mr.  Bitter  as  his  "fee,"  — 
so,  to  their  chagrin,  a  grand  jury  discovered  in  later  years, 
when  they  were  barking  around  Mr.  Jason's  hole  with  an 
eager  district  attorney  snapping  his  whip  over  them.  I 
remember  the  cartoon.  The  municipal  geese  were  gone, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  prove  that  this  particular  fox  had 
used  his  enlightened  reason  in  their  procurement.  Mr. 
Bitter  was  a  legally  authorized  fox,  and  could  take  fees. 
How  Mr.  Jason  was  to  be  rewarded  by  the  land  company's 
left  hand,  unknown  to  the  land  company's  right  hand,  be 
came  a  problem  worthy  of  a  genius.  The  genius  was  found, 
but  modesty  forbids  me  to  mention  his  name ;  and  the  prob 
lem  was  solved,  to  wit :  the  land  company  bought  a  piece 
of  down-town  property  from  Mr.  Ryerson,  who  was  Mr. 
Grierson's  real  estate  man  and  the  agent  for  the  land  com- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  311 

pany,  for  a  consideration  of  thirty  thousand  dollars.  An 
unconfirmed  rumour  had  it  that  Mr.  Ryerson  turned  over  the 
thirty  thousand  to  Mr.  Jason.  Then  the  Riverside  Company 
issued  a  secret  deed  of  the  same  property  back  to  Mr.  Ryerson, 
and  this  deed  was  not  recorded  until  some  years  later. 

Such  are  the  elaborate  transactions  progress  and  prosperity 
demand.  Nature  is  the  great  teacher,  and  we  know  that  her 
ways  are  at  tunes  complicated  and  clumsy.  Likewise,  under 
the  "natural"  laws  of  economics,  new  enterprises  are  not 
born  without  travail,  without  the  aid  of  legal  physicians  well 
versed  in  financial  obstetrics.  One  hundred  and  fifty  to 
two  hundred  thousand,  let  us  say,  for  the  right  to  build  tracks 
on  Maplewood  Avenue,  and  we  sold  nearly  two  million 
dollars'  worth  of  the  securities  back  to  the  public  whose 
aldermen  had  sold  us  the  franchise.  Is  there  a  man  so  dead 
as  not  to  feel  a  thrill  at  this  achievement?  And  let  no  one 
who  declares  that  literary  talent  and  imagination  are  non 
existent  in  America  pronounce  final  judgment  until  he  reads 
that  prospectus,  in  which  was  combined  the  best  of  realism 
and  symbolism,  for  the  labours  of  Alonzo  Cheyne  were  not 
to  be  wasted,  after  all.  Mr.  Dickinson,  who  was  a  director 
in  the  Maplewood  line,  got  a  handsome  underwriting  per 
centage,  and  Mr.  Berringer,  also  a  director,  on  the  bonds  and 
preferred  stock  he  sold.  Mr.  Paret,  who  entered  both  com 
panies  on  the  ground  floor,  likewise  got  fees.  Everybody 
was  satisfied  except  the  trouble  makers,  who  were  ignored. 
In  short,  the  episode  of  the  Riverside  Franchise  is  a  trium 
phant  proof  of  the  contention  that  business  men  are  the 
best  fitted  to  conduct  the  politics  of  their  country. 

We  had  learned  to  pursue  our  happiness  in  packs,  we 
knew  that  the  Happy  Hunting-Grounds  are  here  and  now, 
while  the  Reverend  Carey  Heddon  continued  to  assure  the 
maimed,  the  halt  and  the  blind  that  their  kingdom  was  not 
of  this  world,  that  their  time  was  coming  later.  Could  there 
have  been  a  more  ideal  arrangement!  Everybody  should 
have  been  satisfied,  but  everybody  was  not.  Otherwise 
these  pages  would  never  have  been  written. 


XVIII 


As  the  name  of  our  city  grew  to  be  more  and  more  a  by 
word  for  sudden  and  fabulous  wealth,  not  only  were  the 
Huns  and  the  Slavs,  the  Czechs  and  the  Greeks  drawn  to 
us,  but  it  became  the  fashion  for  distinguished  Englishmen 
and  Frenchmen  and  sometimes  Germans  and  Italians  to 
pay  us  a  visit  when  they  made  the  grand  tour  of  America. 
They  had  been  told  that  they  must  not  miss  us ;  scarcely  a 
week  went  by  in  our  community  —  so  it  was  said  —  in  which 
a  full-fledged  millionaire  was  not  turned  out.  Our  visitors 
did  not  always  remain  a  week,  —  since  their  rapid  journey- 
ings  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  from  Canada  to  the 
Gulf  rarely  occupied  more  than  four,  —  but  in  the  books 
embodying  their  mature  comments  on  the  manners,  customs 
and  crudities  of  American  civilization  no  less  than  a  chapter 
was  usually  devoted  to  us;  and  most  of  the  adjectives  in 
their  various  languages  were  exhausted  in  the  attempt  to 
prove  how  symptomatic  we  were  of  the  ambitions  and  ideals 
of  the  Republic.  The  fact  that  many  of  these  gentlemen  — 
literary  and  otherwise  —  returned  to  their  own  shores  better 
fed  and  with  larger  balances  in  the  banks  than  when  they 
departed  is  neither  here  nor  there.  Egyptians  are  prover 
bially  created  to  be  spoiled. 

The  wiser  and  more  fortunate  of  these  travellers  and 
students  of  life  brought  letters  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hambleton 
Durrett.  That  household  was  symptomatic  —  if  they  liked 
—  of  the  new  order  of  things ;  and  it  was  rare  indeed  when 
both  members  of  it  were  at  home  to  entertain  them.  If 
Mr.  Durrett  were  in  the  city,  and  they  did  not  happen  to  be 
Britons  with  sporting  proclivities,  they  simply  were  not 

312 


A  FAR  COUNT RY  813 

entertained:  when  Mrs.  Durrett  received  them  dinners 
were  given  in  their  honour  on  the  Durrett  gold  plate,  and 
they  spent  cosey  and  delightful  hours  conversing  with  her 
in  the  little  salon  overlooking  the  garden,  to  return  to  their 
hotels  and  jot  down  paragraphs  on  the  superiority  of  the 
American  women  over  the  men.  These  particular  foreigners 
did  not  lay  eyes  on  Mr.  Durrett,  who  was  in  Florida  or  in 
the  East  playing  polo  or  engaged  in  some  other  pursuit. 
One  result  of  the  lavishne'ss  and  luxury  that  amazed  them  — 
they  wrote  —  had  been  to  raise  the  standard  of  culture  of 
the  women,  who  were  our  leisure  class.  But  the  travellers 
did  not  remain  long  enough  to  arrive  at  any  conclusions  of 
value  on  the  effect  of  luxury  and  lavishness  on  the  sacred 
institution  of  marriage. 

If  Mr.  Nathaniel  Durrett  could  have  returned  to  his  native 
city  after  fifteen  years  or  so  in  the  grave,  not  the  least  of  the 
phenomena  to  startle  him  would  have  been  that  which  was 
taking  place  in  his  own  house.  For  he  would  have  beheld 
serenely  established  in  that  former  abode  of  Calvinism  one 
of  the  most  reprehensible  of  exotic  abominations,  a  mariage 
de  convenance ;  nor  could  he  have  failed  to  observe,  more 
over,  the  complacency  with  which  the  descendants  of  his 
friends,  the  pew  holders  in  Dr.  Pound's  church,  regarded  the 
matter:  and  not  only  these,  but  the  city  at  large.  The 
stronghold  of  Scotch  Presbyterianism  had  become  a  London 
or  a  Paris,  a  Gomorrah ! 

Mrs.  Hambleton  Durrett  went  her  way,  and  Mr.  Durrett 
his.  The  less  said  about  Mr.  Durrett's  way  —  even  in  this 
suddenly  advanced  age  —  the  better.  As  for  Nancy,  she 
seemed  to  the  distant  eye  to  be  walking  through  life  in  a 
stately  and  triumphant  manner.  I  read  in  the  newspapers 
of  her  doings,  her  comings  and  goings ;  sometimes  she  was 
away  for  months  together,  often  abroad ;  and  when  she  was 
at  home  I  saw  her,  but  infrequently,  under  conditions  more 
or  less  formal.  Not  that  she  was  formal,  —  or  I :  our  inter 
course  seemed  eloquent  of  an  intimacy  in  a  tantalizing  state 
of  suspense.  Would  that  intimacy  ever  be  renewed  ?  This 


314  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

was  a  question  on  which  I  sometimes  speculated.  The 
situation  that  had  suspended  or  put  an  end  to  It,  as  the 
case  might  be,  was  never  referred  to  by  either  of  us. 

One  afternoon  in  the  late  winter  of  the  year  following  that 
in  which  we  had  given  a  dinner  to  the  Scherers  (where  the 
Durretts  had  rather  marvellously  appeared  together)  I  left 
my  office  about  three  o'clock — a  most  unusual  occurrence. 
I  was  restless,  unable  to  fix  my  mind  on  my  work,  filled  with 
unsatisfied  yearnings  the  object  of  which  I  sought  to  keep 
vague,  and  yet  I  directed  my  steps  westward  along  Boyne 
Street  until  I  came  to  the  Art  Museum,  where  a  loan  exhibi 
tion  was  being  held.  I  entered,  bought  a  catalogue,  and 
presently  found  myself  standing  before  number  103,  desig 
nated  as  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Hambleton  Durrett,  —  painted 
in  Paris  the  autumn  before  by  a  Polish  artist  then  much  in 
vogue,  Stanislaus  Czesky.  Nancy  —  was  it  Nancy  ?  —  was 
standing  facing  me,  tall,  superb  in  the  maturity  of  her 
beauty,  with  one  hand  resting  on  an  antique  table,  a  smile 
upon  her  lips,  a  gentle  mockery  in  her  eyes  as  though  laugh 
ing  at  the  world  she  adorned.  With  the  smile  and  the  mock 
ery  —  somehow  significant,  too,  of  an  achieved  inaccessi 
bility  —  went  the  sheen  of  her  clinging  gown  and  the  glint 
of  the  heavy  pearls  drooping  from  her  high  throat  to  her 
waist.  These  caught  the  eye,  but  failed  at  length  to  hold  it, 
for  even  as  I  looked  the  smile  faded,  the  mockery  turned  to 
wistfulness.  So  I  thought,  and  looked  again  —  to  see  the 
wistfulness :  the  smile  had  gone,  the  pearls  seemed  heavier. 
Was  it  a  trick  of  the  artist?  had  he  seen  what  I  saw,  or 
thought  I  saw  ?  or  was  it  that  imagination  which  by  now  I 
might  have  learned  to  suspect  and  distrust.  Wild  longings 
took  possession  of  me,  for  the  portrait  had  seemed  to  em 
phasize  at  once  how  distant  now  she  was  from  me,  and  yet 
how  near !  I  wanted  to  put  that  nearness  to  the  test.  Had 
she  really  changed?  did  anyone  really  change?  and  had  I 
not  been  a  fool  to  accept  the  presentment  she  had  given  me  ? 
I  remembered  those  moments  when  our  glances  had  met  as 
across  barriers  in  flashes  of  understanding.  After  all,  the 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  315 

barriers  were  mere  relics  of  the  superstition  of  the  past. 
What  if  I  went  to  her  now?  I  felt  that  I  needed  her  as  I 
never  had  needed  anyone  in  all  my  Me.  ...  I  was  aroused 
by  the  sound  of  lowered  voices  beside  me. 

"That's  Mrs.  Hambleton  Durrett,"  I  heard  a  woman  say. 
"Isn't  she  beautiful?" 

The  note  of  envy  struck  me  sharply  —  horribly.  Without 
waiting  to  listen  to  the  comment  of  her  companion  I  hurried 
out  of  the  building  into  the  cold,  white  sunlight  that  threw 
into  bold  relief  the  mediocre  houses  of  the  street.  Here  was 
everyday  life,  but  the  portrait  had  suggested  that  which 
might  have  been — might  be  yet.  What  did  I  mean  by 
this  ?  I  didn't  know,  I  didn't  care  to  define  it,  —  a  re 
newal  of  her  friendship,  of  our  intimacy.  My  being  cried 
out  for  it,  and  in  the  world  in  which  I  lived  we  took 
what  we  wanted  —  why  not  this  ?  And  yet  for  an  instant  I 
stood  on  the  sidewalk  to  discover  that  in  new  situations 
I  was  still  subject  to  unaccountable  qualms  of  that  thing  I 
had  been  taught  to  call  "conscience";  whether  it  were 
conscience  or  not  must  be  left  to  the  psychologists.  I  was 
married  —  terrible  word !  the  shadow  of  that  Institution  fell 
athwart  me  as  the  sun  went  under  a  cloud;  but  the  sun 
came  out  again  as  I  found  myself  walking  toward  the  Durrett 
house  reflecting  that  numbers  of  married  men  called  on 
Nancy,  and  that  what  I  had  in  mind  in  regard  to  her  was 
nothing  that  the  court  would  have  pronounced  an  Infringe 
ment  upon  the  Institution.  ...  I  reached  her  steps,  the 
long  steps  still  guarded  by  the  curved  wrought-iron  railings 
reminiscent  of  Nathaniel's  day,  though  the  "portals"  were 
gone,  a  modern  vestibule  having  replaced  them ;  I  rang  the 
bell;  the  butler  flung  open  the  doors.  He,  at  any  rate, 
did  not  seem  surprised  to  see  me  here,  he  greeted  me  with 
respectful  cordiality  and  led  me,  as  a  favoured  guest,  through 
the  big  drawing-room  into  the  salon. 

"Mr.  Paret,  Madam!" 

Nancy  rose  quickly  from  the  low  chair  where  she  sat 
cutting  the  pages  of  a  French  novel. 


316  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"  Hugh ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I'm  out  if  anyone  calls.  Bring 
tea,"  she  added  to  the  man,  who  retired.  For  a  moment 
we  stood  gazing  at  each  other,  questioningly.  "Well,  won't 
you  sit  down  and  stay  awhile?"  she  asked. 

I  took  a  chair  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire. 

"I  just  thought  I'd  drop  in,"  I  said. 

"I  am  flattered,"  said  Nancy,  "that  a  person  so  affaire 
should  find  time  to  call  on  an  old  friend.  Why,  I  thought 
you  never  left  your  office  until  seven  o'clock." 

"I  don't,  as  a  rule,  but  to-day  I  wasn't  particularly  busy, 
and  I  thought  I'd  go  round  to  the  Art  Museum  and  look  at 
your  portrait." 

"More  flattery!  Hugh,  you're  getting  quite  human. 
What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  like  it.    I  think  it  quite  remarkable." 

"Have  a  cigarette!" 

I  took  one. 

"So  you  really  like  it,"  she  said. 

"Don't  you?" 

"Oh,  I  think  it's  a  trifle  —  romantic,"  she  replied  "But 
that's  Czesky.  He  made  me  quite  cross,  —  the  feminine 
presentation  of  America,  the  spoiled  woman  who  has  shed 
responsibilities  and  is  beginning  to  have  a  glimpse  —  just 
a  little  one  —  of  the  emptiness  of  it  all." 

I  was  stirred. 

"Then  why  do  you  accept  it,  if  it  isn't  you?"  I  demanded. 

"One  doesn't  refuse  Czesky's  canvases,"  she  replied. 
"And  what  difference  does  it  make?  It  amused  him,  and 
he  was  fairly  subtle  about  it.  Only  those  who  are  looking 
for  romance,  like  you,  are  able  to  guess  what  he  meant,  — 
and  they  would  think  they  saw  it  anyway,  even  if  he  had 
painted  me  —  extinct." 

"Extinct!"  I  repeated. 

She  laughed. 

"Hugh,  you're  a  silly  old  goose!" 

"That's  why  I  came  here,  I  think,  to  be  told  so,"  I  said. 

Tea  was  brought  in.    A  sense  of  at-homeness  stole  over 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  317 

me,  —  I  was  more  at  home  here  in  this  room  with  Nancy, 
than  in  any  other  place  in  the  world ;  here,  where  everything 
was  at  once  soothing  yet  stimulating,  expressive  of  her, 
even  the  smaller  objects  that  caught  my  eye,  —  the  crystal 
inkstand  tipped  with  gold,  the  racks  for  the  table  books, 
her  paper-cutter.  Nancy's  was  a  discriminating  luxury. 
And  her  talk!  The  lightness  with  which  she  touched  life, 
the  unexplored  depths  of  her,  guessed  at  but  never  fathomed ! 
Did  she  feel  a  little  the  need  of  me  as  I  felt  the  need  of  her  ? 

"Why,  I  believe  you're  incurably  romantic,  Hugh,"  she 
said  laughingly,  when  the  men  had  left  the  room.  "Here 
you  are,  what  they  call  a  paragon  of  success,  a  future  senator, 
Ambassador  to  England.  I  hear  of  those  remarkable  things 
you  have  done  —  even  in  New  York  the  other  day  a  man  was 
asking  me  if  I  knew  Mr.  Paret,  and  spoke  of  you  as  one  of 
the  coming  men.  I  suppose  you  will  be  moving  there,  soon. 
A  practical  success !  It  always  surprises  me  when  I  think  of 
it,  I  find.it  difficult  to  remember  what  a  dreamer  you  were  — 
and  here  you  turn  out  to  be  still  a  dreamer  I  Have  you 
discovered,  too,  the  emptiness  of  it  all?"  she  inquired  pro- 
vokingly.  "I  must  say  you  don't  look  it"  —  she  gave  me  a 
critical,  quizzical  glance  —  "  you  look  quite  prosperous  and 
contented,  as  though  you  enjoyed  your  power." 

I  laughed  uneasily. 

"And  then,"  she  continued,  "and  then  one  day  when  your 
luncheon  has  disagreed  with  you  you  walk  into  a  gallery  and 
see  a  portrait  of  —  of  an  old  friend  for  whom  in  youth,  when 
you  were  a  dreamer,  you  professed  a  sentimental  attachment, 
and  you  exclaim  that  the  artist  is  a  discerning  man  who  has 
discovered  the  secret  that  she  has  guarded  so  closely.  She's 
sorry  that  she  ever  tried  to  console  herself  with  baubles  — • 
it's  what  you've  suspected  all  along.  But  you'll  just  run 
around  to  see  for  yourself  —  to  be  sure  of  it."  And  she 
handed  me  my  tea.  "  Come  now,  confess.  Where  are  your 
wits  —  I  hear  you  don't  lack  them  in  court." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "if  that  amuses  you—" 

"It  does  amuse  me,"  said  Nancy,  twining  her  fingers  across 


318  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

her  knee  and  regarding  me  smilingly,  with  parted  lips,  "it 
amuses  me  a  lot  —  it's  so  characteristic." 

"But  it's  not  true,  it's  unjust,"  I  protested  vigorously, 
smiling,  too,  because  the  attack  was  so  characteristic  of  her. 

"What  then?"  she  demanded. 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,  my  luncheon  didn't  disagree  with 
me.  It  never  does." 

She  laughed.  "But  the  sentiment  —  come  now  —  the 
sentiment?  Do  you  perceive  any  hint  of  emptiness  — 
despair  ?  " 

Our  chairs  were  very  close,  and  she  leaned  forward  a  little. 

"Emptiness  or  no  emptiness,"  I  said  a  little  tremulously, 
"I  know  that  I  haven't  been  so  contented,  so  happy  for  a 
long  time." 

She  sat  very  still,  but  turned  her  gaze  on  the  fire. 

"You  really  wouldn't  want  to  find  that,  Hugh,"  she  said 
in  another  voice,  at  which  I  exclaimed.  "No,  I'm  not 
being  sentimental.  But,  to  be  serious,  I  really  shouldn't 
care  to  think  that  of  you.  I'd  like  to  think  of  you  as  a 
friend  —  a  good  friend  —  although  we  don't  see  very  much 
of  one  another." 

"But  that's  why  I  came,  Nancy,"  I  explained.  "It 
wasn't  just  an  impulse  —  that  is,  I've  been  thinking  of  you  a 
great  deal,  all  along.  I  miss  you,  I  miss  the  way  you  look  at 
things  —  your  point  of  view.  I  can't  see  any  reason  why 
we  shouldn't  see  something  of  each  other  —  now — " 

She  continued  to  stare  into  the  fire. 

"No,"  she  said  at  length,  "I  suppose  there  isn't  any 
reason."  Her  mood  seemed  suddenly  to  change  as  she  bent 
over  and  extinguished  the  flame  under  the  kettle.  "After 
all,"  she  added  gaily,  "we  live  in  a  tolerant  age,  we've 
reached  the  years  of  discretion,  and  we're  both  too  conven 
tional  to  do  anything  silly  —  even  if  we  wanted  to  —  which 
we  don't.  We're  neither  of  us  likely  to  quarrel  with  the 
world  as  it  is,  I  think,  and  we  might  as  well  make  fun  of  it 
together.  We'll  begin  with  our  friends.  What  do  you  think 
of  Mr.  Scherer's  palace?" 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  319 

"I  hear  you're  building  it  for  him/' 

"I  told  him  to  get  Eyre,"  said  Nancy,  laughingly,  "I 
was  afraid  he'd  repeat  the  Gallatin  Park  monstrosity  on 
a  larger  scale,  and  Eyre's  the  only  man  in  this  country 
who  understands  the  French.  It's  been  rather  amusing," 
she  went  on,  "I've  had  to  fight  Hilda,  and  she's  no  mean 
antagonist.  How  she  hates  me !  She  wanted  a  monstros 
ity,  of  course,  a  modernized  German  rock-grotto  sort  of  an 
affair,  I  can  imagine.  She's  been  so  funny  when  I've  met 
her  at  dinner.  'I  understand  you  take  a  great  interest 
in  the  house,  Mrs.  Durrett.'  Can't  you  hear  her?" 

"Well,  you  did  get  ahead  of  her,"  I  said. 

"I  had  to.  I  couldn't  let  our  first  citizen  build  a  modern 
Rhine  castle,  could  I  ?  I  have  some  public  spirit  left.  And 
besides,  I  expect  to  build  on  Grant  Avenue  myself." 

"And  leave  here?" 

"Oh,  it's  too  grubby,  it's  in  the  slums,"  said  Nancy. 
"But  I  really  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude,  Hugh,  for  the 
Scherers." 

"I'm  told  Adolf's  lost  his  head  over  you." 

"It's  not  only  over  me,  but  over  everything.  He's  so 
ridiculously  proud  of  being  on  the  board  of  the  Children's 
Hospital.  .  .  .  You  ought  to  hear  him  talking  to  old  Mrs. 
Ogilvy,  who  of  course  can't  get  used  to  him  at  all,  —  she 
always  has  the  air  of  inquiring  what  he's  doing  in  that 
galley.  She  still  thinks  of  him  as  Mr.  Durrett's  foreman." 

The  time  flew.  Her  presence  was  like  a  bracing,  tingling 
atmosphere  in  which  I  felt  revived  and  exhilarated,  self- 
restored.  For  Nancy  did  not  question  —  she  took  me  as  I 
was.  We  looked  out  on  the  world,  as  it  were,  from  the  same 
window,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  ours,  after  all, 
was  a  large  view.  The  topics  didn't  matter  —  our  conver 
sation  was  fragrant  with  intimacy;  and  we  were  so  close 
to  each  other  it  seemed  incredible  that  we  ever  should  be 
parted  again.  At  last  the  little  clock  on  the  mantel  chimed 
an  hour,  she  started  and  looked  up. 

"Why,  it's  seven,  Hugh!"  she  exclaimed,  rising.     "I'd 


320  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

no  idea  it  was  so  late,  and  I'm  dining  with  the  Dickinsons. 
I've  only  just  time  to  dress." 

"It's  been  like  a  reunion,  hasn't  it?  —  a  reunion  after 
many  years,"  I  said.  I  held  her  hand  unconsciously  —  she 
seemed  to  be  drawing  me  to  her,  I  thought  she  swayed,  and  a 
sudden  dizziness  seized  me.  Then  she  drew  away  abruptly, 
with  a  little  cry.  I  couldn't  be  sure  about  the  cry,  — 
whether  I  heard  it  or  not,  a  note  was  struck  in  the  very 
depths  of  me. 

"Come  in  again,"  she  said,  "whenever  you're  not  too 
busy."  And  a  minute  later  I  found  myself  on  the  street. 


This  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  intimacy  with  Nancy, 
resembling  the  old  intimacy  yet  differing  from  it.  The 
emotional  note  of  our  parting  on  the  occasion  I  have  just 
related  was  not  again  struck,  and  when  I  went  eagerly  to 
see  her  again  a  few  days  later  I  was  conscious  of  limitations, 
—  not  too  conscious :  the  freedom  she  offered  and  which  I 
gladly  accepted  was  a  large  freedom,  nor  am  I  quite  sure  that 
even  I  would  have  wished  it  larger,  though  there  were 
naturally  moments  when  I  thought  so :  when  I  asked  my 
self  what  I  did  wish,  I  found  no  answer.  Though  I  some 
times  chafed,  it  would  have  been  absurd  of  me  to  object  to  a 
certain  timidity  or  caution  I  began  to  perceive  in  her  that 
had  been  absent  in  the  old  Nancy;  but  the  old  Nancy  had 
ceased  to  exist,  and  here  instead  was  a  highly  developed, 
highly  specialized  creature  in  whom  I  delighted;  and  after 
taking  thought  I  would  not  have  robbed  her  of  one  acquired 
attribute.  As  she  had  truly  observed,  we  were  both  con 
ventional  ;  conventionality  was  part  of  the  price  we  had  will 
ingly  paid  for  membership  in  that  rarer  world  we  had  both 
achieved.  It  was  a  world,  to  be  sure,  in  which  we  were 
rapidly  learning  to  take  the  law  into  our  own  hands  without 
seeming  to  defy  it,  in  order  that  the  fear  of  it  might  remain 
in  those  less  fortunately  placed  and  endowed :  we  had 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  321 

begun  with  the  appropriation  of  the  material  property  of  our 
fellow-citizens,  which  we  took  legally;  from  this  point  it 
was,  of  course,  merely  a  logical  step  to  take  —  legally,  too  — 
other  gentlemen's  human  property  —  their  wives,  in  short : 
the  more  progressive  East  had  set  us  our  example,  but  as 
yet  we  had  been  chary  to  follow  it. 

About  this  time  rebellious  voices  were  beginning  to  make 
themselves  heard  in  the  literary  wilderness  proclaiming 
liberty  —  liberty  of  the  sexes.  There  were  Russian  novels 
and  French  novels,  and  pioneer  English  novels  preaching 
liberty  with  Nietzschean  stridency,  or  taking  it  for  granted. 
I  picked  these  up  on  Nancy's  table. 

"Reading  them?"  she  said,  in  answer  to  my  query.  "Of 
course  I'm  reading  them.  I  want  to  know  what  these  clever 
people  are  thinking,  even  if  I  don't  always  agree  with  them, 
and  you  ought  to  read  them  too.  It's  quite  true  what 
foreigners  say  about  our  men,  —  that  they  live  in  a  groove, 
that  they  haven't  any  range  of  conversation." 

"  I'm  quite  willing  to  be  educated,"  I  replied.  "  I  haven't 
a  doubt  that  I  need  it." 

She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  her  hands  behind  her 
head,  a  posture  she  often  assumed.  She  looked  up  at  me 
amusedly. 

"I'll  acknowledge  that  you're  more  teachable  than  most 
of  them,"  she  said.  "Do  you  know,  Hugh,  sometimes  you 
puzzle  me  greatly.  When  you  are  here  and  we're  talking 
together  I  can  never  think  of  you  as  you  are  out  in  the 
world,  fighting  for  power  —  and  getting  it.  I  suppose  it's 
part  of  your  charm,  that  there  is  that  side  of  you,  but  I  never 
consciously  realize  it.  You're  what  they  call  a  dual  personal- ' 
ity." 

"  That's  a  pretty  hard  name ! "  I  exclaimed. 

She  laughed. 

"I  can't  help  it  —  you  are.  Oh,  not  disagreeably  so, 
quite  normally  —  that's  the  odd  thing  about  you.  Some 
times  I  believe  that  you  were  made  for  something  different, 
that  in  spite  of  your  success  you  have  missed  your  metier." 


322  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"What  ought  I  to  have  been?" 

"How  can  I  tell?  A  Goethe,  perhaps — a  Goethe 
smothered  by  a  twentieth-century  environment.  Your  love 
of  adventure  isn't  dead,  it's  been  merely  misdirected, — 
real  adventure,  I  mean,  forth  faring,  straying  into  unknown 
paths.  Perhaps  you  haven't  yet  found  yourself." 

"How  uncanny!"  I  said,  stirred  and  startled. 

"You  have  a  taste  for  literature,  you  know,  though  you've 
buried  it.  Give  me  Turgeniev.  We'll  begin  with  him.  ..." 

Her  reading  and  the  talks  that  followed  it  were  exciting, 
amazingly  stimulating.  .  .  .  Once  Nancy  gave  me  an 
amusing  account  of  a  debate  which  had  taken  place  in  the 
newly  organized  woman's  discussion  club  to  which  she 
belonged  over  a  rather  daring  book  by  an  English  novelist. 
Mrs.  Dickinson  had  revolted. 

"  No,  she  wasn't  really  shocked,  not  in  the  way  she  thought 
she  was,"  said  Nancy,  in  answer  to  a  query  of  mine. 

"How  was  she  shocked,  then?" 

"As  you  and  I  are  skocked." 

"But  I'm  not  shocked,"  I  protested. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are,  and  so  am  I  —  not  on  the  moral  side, 
nor  is  it  the  moral  aspect  that  troubles  Lula  Dickinson.  She 
thinks  it's  the  moral  aspect,  but  it's  really  the  revolutionary 
aspect,  the  menace  to  those  precious  institutions  from  which 
we  derive  our  privileges  and  comforts." 

I  considered  this,  and  laughed. 

"What's  the  use  of  being  a  humbug  about  it,"  said  Nancy. 

"But  you're  talking  like  a  revolutionary,"  I  said. 

"I  may  be  talking  like  one,  but  I'm  not  one.  I  once  had 
the  makings  of  one  —  of  a  good  one,  —  a  'proper'  one,  as 
the  English  would  say."  She  sighed. 

"You  regret  it?"  I  asked  curiously. 

"Of  course  I  regret  it !"  she  cried.  "What  woman  worth 
her  salt  doesn't  regret  it,  doesn't  want  to  live,  even  if  she 
has  to  suffer  for  it?  And  those  people  —  the  revolution 
aries,  I  mean,  the  rebels  —  they  live,  they're  the  only  ones 
who  do  live.  The  rest  of  us  degenerate  in  a  painless  paraly- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  323 

sis  we  think  of  as  pleasure.  Look  at  me!  I'm  incapable 
of  committing  a  single  original  act,  even  though  I  might 
conceive  one.  Well,  there  was  a  time  when  I  should  have 
been  equal  to  anything  and  wouldn't  have  cared  a — _a 
damn." 

I  believed  her. 


I  fell  into  the  habit  of  dropping  in  on  Nancy  at  least 
twice  a  week  on  my  way  from  the  office,  and  I  met  her 
occasionally  at  other  houses.  I  did  not  tell  Maude  of  that 
first  impulsive  visit ;  but  one  evening  a  few  weeks  later  she 
asked  me  where  I  had  been,  and  when  I  told,  her  she  made  no 
comment.  I  came  presently  to  the  conclusion  that  this 
renewed  intimacy  did  not  trouble  her  —  which  was  what  I 
wished  to  believe.  Of  course  I  had  gone  to  Nancy  for  a 
stimulation  I  failed  to  get  at  home,  and  it  is  the  more  ex 
traordinary,  therefore,  that  I  did  not  become  more  discon 
tented  and  restless :  I  suppose  this  was  because  I  had  grown 
to  regard  marriage  as  most  of  the  world  regarded  it,  as 
something  inevitable  and  humdrum,  as  a  kind  of  habit  it  is 
useless  to  try  to  shake  off.  But  life  is  so  full  of  complexi 
ties  and  anomalies  that  I  still  had  a  real  affection  for  Maude, 
and  I  liked  her  the  more  because  she  didn't  expect  too  much 
of  me,  and  because  she  didn't  complain  of  my  friendship  with 
Nancy  —  although  I  should  vehemently  have  denied  there 
was  anything  to  complain  of.  I  respected  Maude.  If  she 
was  not  a  squaw,  she  performed  religiously  the  traditional 
squaw  duties,  and  made  me  comfortable :  and  the  fact  that 
we  lived  separate  mental  existences  did  not  trouble  me  be 
cause  I  never  thought  of  hers  —  or  even  that  she  had  one. 
She  had  the  children,  and  they  seemed  to  suffice.  She  never 
renewed  her  appeal  for  my  confidence,  and  I  forgot  that  she 
had  made  it. 

Nevertheless  I  always  felt  a  tug  at  my  heartstrings  when 
June  came  around  and  it  was  time  for  her  and  the  children 
to  go  to  Mattapoisett  for  the  summer ;  when  I  accompanied 


324  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

them,  on  the  evening  of  their  departure,  to  the  smoky,  noisy 
station  and  saw  deposited  in  the  sleeping-car  their  luggage 
and  shawls  and  bundles.  They  always  took  the  evening 
train  to  Boston;  it  was  the  best.  Tom  and  Susan  were 
invariably  there  with  candy  and  toys  to  see  them  off  —  if 
Susan  and  her  children  had  not  already  gone  —  and  at  such 
moments  my  heart  warmed  to  Tom.  And  I  was  astonished 
as  I  clung  to  Matthew  and  Moreton  and  little  Biddy  at  the 
affection  that  welled  up  within  me,  saddened  when  I  kissed 
Maude  good-bye.  She  too  was  sad,  and  always  seemed  to 
feel  compunctions  for  deserting  me. 

"I  feel  so  selfish  in  leaving  you  all  alone  I"  she  would  say. 
"If  it  weren't  for  the  children  —  they  need  the  sea  air.  But 
I  know  you  don't  miss  me  as  I  miss  you.  A  man  doesn't, 
I  suppose.  .  .  .  Please  don't  work  so  hard,  and  promise  me 
you'll  come  on  and  stay  a  long  time.  You  can  if  you  want 
to.  We  shan't  starve."  She  smiled.  "That  nice  room, 
which  is  yours,  at  the  southeast  corner,  is  always  waiting 
for  you.  And  you  do  like  the  sea,  and  seeing  the  sail-boats 
in  the  morning." 

I  felt  an  emptiness  when  the  train  pulled  out.  I  did  love 
my  family,  after  all  I  I  would  go  back  to  the  deserted  house, 
and  I  could  not  bear  to  look  in  at  the  nursery  door,  at  the 
little  beds  with  covers  flung  over  them.  Why  couldn't  I 
appreciate  these  joys  when  I  had  them? 

One  evening,  as  we  went  home  in  an  open  street-car  to 
gether,  after  such  a  departure,  Tom  blurted  out :  — 

"Hugh,  I  believe  I  care  for  your  family  as  much  as  for 
'  my  own.  I  often  wonder  if  you  realize  how  wonderful  these 
children  are !  My  boys  are  just  plain  ruffians  —  although 
I  think  they're  pretty  decent  ruffians,  but  Matthew  has  a 
mind  —  he's  thoughtful  —  and  an  imagination.  He'll  make 
a  name  for  himself  some  day  if  he's  steered  properly  and 
allowed  to  develop  naturally.  Moreton's  more  like  my 
boys.  And  as  for  Chickabiddy! — "  words  failed  him. 

I  put  my  hand  on  his  knee.  I  actually  loved  him  again 
as  I  had  loved  and  yearned  for  him  as  a  child,  —  he  was  so 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  325 

human,  so  dependable.  And  why  couldn't  this  feeling  last  ? 
He  disapproved  —  foolishly,  I  thought  —  of  my  professional 
career,  and  this  was  only  one  of  his  limitations.  But  I 
knew  that  he  was  loyal.  Why  hadn't  I  been  able  to  breathe 
and  be  reasonably  happy  in  that  atmosphere  of  friendship 
and  love  in  which  I  had  been  placed  —  or  rather  in  which  I 
had  placed  myself?  .  .  .  Before  the  summer  was  a  day  or 
two  older  I  had  grown  accustomed  to  being  alone,  and  en 
joyed  the  liberty;  and  when  Maude  and  the  children  re 
turned  in  the  autumn,  similarly,  it  took  me  some  days  to 
get  used  to  the  restrictions  imposed  by  a  household.  I  run 
the  risk  of  shocking  those  who  read  this  by  declaring  that  if 
my  family  had  been  taken  permanently  out  of  my  life,  I 
should  not  long  have  missed  them.  But  on  the  whole,  in 
those  years  my  marriage  relation  might  be  called  a  negative 
one.  There  were  moments,  as  I  have  described,  when  I 
warmed  to  Maude,  moments  when  I  felt  something  akin  to 
a  violent  antagonism  aroused  by  little  mannerisms  and  tricks 
she  had.  The  fact  that  we  got  along  as  well  as  we  did  was 
probably  due  to  the  orthodox  teaching  with  which  we  had 
been  inoculated,  —  to  the  effect  that  matrimony  was  a  moral 
trial,  a  shaking-down  process.  But  moral  trials  were  ceasing 
to  appeal  to  people,  and  more  and  more  of  them  were  refusing 
to  be  shaken  down.  We  didn't  cut  the  Gordian  knot,  but 
we  managed  to  loosen  it  considerably. 


I  have  spoken  of  a  new  species  of  titans  who  inhabited 
the  giant  buildings  in  Wall  Street,  New  York,  and  fought 
among  themselves  for  possession  of  the  United  States  of 
America.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  in  these  struggles 
a  certain  chivalry  was  observed  among  the  combatants,  no 
matter  how  bitter  the  rivalry :  for  instance,  it  was  deemed 
very  bad  form  for  one  of  the  groups  of  combatants  to 
take  the  public  into  their  confidence ;  cities  were  upset  and 
stirred  to  the  core  by  these  conflicts,  and  the  citizens  never 


326  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

knew  who  was  doing  the  fighting,  but  imagined  that  some 
burning  issue  was  at  stake  that  concerned  them.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  the  issue  always  did  concern  them,  but  not 
in  the  way  they  supposed. 

Gradually,  out  of  the  chaotic  melee  in  which  these  titans 
were  engaged  had  emerged  one  group  more  powerful  than 
the  rest  and  more  respectable,  whose  leader  was  the  Person 
ality  to  whom  I  have  before  referred.  He  and  his  group  had 
managed  to  gain  control  of  certain  conservative  fortresses 
in  various  cities  such  as  the  Corn  National  Bank  and  the 
Ashuela  Telephone  Company  —  to  mention  two  of  many : 
Adolf  Scherer  was  his  ally,  and  the  Boyne  Iron  Works, 
Limited,  was  soon  to  be  merged  by  him  into  a  greater  cor 
poration  still.  Leonard  Dickinson  might  be  called  his  local 
governor-general.  We  manned  the  parapets  and  kept  our 
ears  constantly  to  the  ground  to  listen  for  the  rumble  of 
attacks;  but  sometimes  they  burst  upon  us  fiercely  and 
suddenly,  without  warning.  Such  was  the  assault  on  the 
Ashuela,  which  for  years  had  exercised  an  apparently  secure 
monopoly  of  the  city's  telephone  service,  which  had  been 
able  to  ignore  with  complacency  the  shrillest  protests  of 
unreasonable  subscribers.  Through  the  Pilot  it  was  an 
nounced  to  the  public  that  certain  benevolent  "Eastern 
capitalists"  were  ready  to  rescue  them  from  their  thraldom 
if  the  city  would  grant  them  a  franchise.  Mr.  Lawler,  the 
disinterestedness  of  whose  newspaper  could  not  be  doubted, 
fanned  the  flame  day  by  day,  sent  his  reporters  about  the 
city  gathering  instances  of  the  haughty  neglect  of  the 
Ashuela,  proclaiming  its  instruments  antiquated  compared 
with  those  used  in  more  progressive  cities,  as  compared  with 
the  very  latest  inventions  which  the  Automatic  Company 
was  ready  to  install  —  provided  they  could  get  their  fran 
chise.  And  the  prices !  These,  too,  would  fall  under  com 
petition.  It  was  a  clever  campaign.  If  the  city  would 
give  them  a  franchise,  that  Automatic  Company  —  so  well 
named !  —  would  provide  automatic  instruments.  Each 
tubscriber,  by  means  of  a  numerical  disk,  could  call  up  any 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  327 

other  subscriber;  there  would  be  no  central  operator,  no 
listening,  no  tapping  of  wires;  the  number  of  calls  would 
be  unlimited.  As  a  proof  of  the  confidence  of  these  Eastern 
gentlemen  in  our  city,  they  were  willing  to  spend  five  mil 
lions,  and  present  more  than  six  hundred  telephones  free  to 
the  city  departments !  What  was  fairer,  more  generous 
than  this !  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  popular  enthusiasm 
was  enlisted  in  behalf  of  the  "Eastern  Capitalists,"  who  were 
made  to  appear  in  the  light  of  Crusaders  ready  to  rescue  a 
groaning  people  from  the  thrall  of  monopoly.  The  excitement 
approached  that  of  a  presidential  election,  and  became  the 
dominant  topic  at  quick-lunch  counters  and  in  street-cars. 
Cheap  and  efficient  service!  Down  with  the  Bastille  of 
monopoly ! 

As  counsel  for  the  Ashuela,  Mr.  Ogilvy  sent  for  me,  and 
by  certain  secret  conduits  of  information  at  my  disposal  I 
was  not  long  in  discovering  the  disquieting  fact  that  a  Mr. 
Orthwein,  who  was  described  as  a  gentleman  with  fat  fingers 
and  a  plausible  manner,  had  been  in  town  for  a  week  and  had 
been  twice  seen  entering  and  emerging  from  Monahan's 
saloon.  In  short,  Mr.  Jason  had  already  been  "seen." 
Nevertheless  I  went  to  him  myself,  to  find  him  for  the  first 
time  in  my  experience  absolutely  non-committal. 

"  What's  the  Ashuela  willing  to  do  ?  "  he  demanded. 

I  mentioned  a  sum,  and  he  shook  his  head.  I  mentioned 
another,  and  still  he  shook  his  head. 

"Come  'round  again,"  he  said.  .  .  . 

I  was  compelled  to  report  this  alarming  situation  to 
Ogilvy  and  Dickinson  and  a  few  chosen  members  of  a  pan 
icky  board  of  directors. 

"  It's  that  damned  Grannis  crowd,"  said  Dickinson,  men 
tioning  an  aggressive  gentleman  who  had  migrated  from 
Chicago  to  Wall  Street  some  five  years  before  in  a  pink 
collar. 

"But  what's  to  be  done?"  demanded  Ogilvy,  playing 
nervously  with  a  gold  pencil  on  the  polished  table.  He  was 
one  of  those  Americans  who  in  a  commercial  atmosphere 


328  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

become  prematurely  white,  and  to-day  his  boyish,  smooth- 
shaven  face  was  almost  as  devoid  of  colour  as  his  hair.  Even 
Leonard  Dickinson  showed  anxiety,  which  was  unusual  for 
him. 

"You've  got  .to  fix  it,  Hugh,"  he  said. 

I  did  not  see  my  way,  but  I  had  long  ago  learned  to  assume 
the  unruffled  air  and  judicial  manner  of  speaking  that  in 
spires  the  layman  with  almost  superstitious  confidence  in 
the  lawyer.  .  .  . 

"We'll  find  a  way  out,"  I  said. 

Mr.  Jason,  of  course,  held  the  key  to  the  situation,  and 
just  how  I  was  to  get  around  him  was  problematical.  In 
the  meantime  there  was  the  public:  to  permit  the  other 
fellow  to  capture  that  was  to  be  lacking  in  ordinary  pru 
dence;  if  its  votes  counted  for  nothing,  its  savings  were 
desirable;  and  it  was  fast  getting  into  a  state  of  outrage 
against  monopoly.  The  chivalry  of  finance  did  not  permit 
of  a  revelation  that  Mr.  Grannis  and  his  buccaneers  were 
behind  the  Automatic,  but  it  was  possible  to  direct  and 
strengthen  the  backfire  which  the  Era  and  other  conservative 
newspapers  had  already  begun.  Mr.  Tallant  for  delicate 
reasons  being  persona  non  grata  at  the  Boyne  Club,  despite 
the  fact  that  he  had  so  many  friends  there,  we  met  for  lunch 
in  a  private  room  at  the  new  hotel,  and  as  we  sipped  our 
coffee  and  smoked  our  cigars  we  planned  a  series  of  editorials 
and  articles  that  duly  appeared.  They  made  a  strong  appeal 
to  the  loyalty  of  our  citizens  to  stand  by  the  home  company 
and  home  capital  that  had  taken  generous  risks  to  give  them 
service  at  a  time  when  the  future  of  the  telephone  business 
was  by  no  means  assured ;  they  belittled  the  charges  made 
by  irresponsible  and  interested  "parties,"  and  finally  pointed 
out,  not  without  effect,  that  one  logical  consequence  of  hav 
ing  two  telephone  companies  would  be  to  compel  subscribers 
in  self-defence  to  install  two  telephones  instead  of  one.  And 
where  was  the  saving  in  that  ? 

"Say,  Paret,"  said  Judah  B.  when  we  had  finished  our 
labours,  "if  you  ever  get  sick  of  the  law,  I'll  give  you  a  job 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  329 

on  the  Era's  staff.  This  is  fine,  the  way  you  put  it.  It'll 
do  a  lot  of  good,  but  how  in  hell  are  you  going  to  handle 
Judd?  .  .  ." 

For  three  days  the  inspiration  was  withheld.  And  then,  as 
I  was  strolling  down  Boyne  Street  after  lunch  gazing  into 
the  store  windows  it  came  suddenly,  without  warning.  Like 
most  inspirations  worth  anything,  it  was  very  simple.  Within 
half  an  hour  I  had  reached  Monahan's  saloon  and  found  Mr. 
Jason  out  of  bed,  but  still  in  his  bedroom,  seated  meditatively 
at  the  window  that  looked  over  the  alley. 

"  You  know  the  crowd  in  New  York  behind  this  Automatic 
company  as  well  as  I  do,  Jason,"  I  said.  "Why  do  you 
want  to  deal  with  them  when  we've  always  been  straight 
with  you,  when  we're  ready  to  meet  them  and  go  one  better  ? 
Name  your  price." 

"Suppose  I  do  —  what  then,"  he  replied.  "This  thing's 
gone  pretty  far.  Under  that  damned  new  charter  the  fran 
chise  has  got  to  be  bid  for — hasn't  it  ?  And  the  people  want 
this  company.  There'll  be  a  howl  from  one  end  of  this  town 
to  the  other  if  we  throw  'em  down." 

"We'll  look  out  for  the  public,"  I  assured  him,  smiling. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  one  of  his  glances  that  were  like 
flashes,  "what  you  got  up  your  sleeve?" 

"Suppose  another  telephone  company  steps  in,  and  bids 
a  little  higher  for  the  franchise.  That  relieves  your  aldermen 
of  all  responsibility,  doesn't  it?" 

"Another  telephone  company !"  he  repeated. 

I  had  already  named  it,  on  my  walk. 

"The  Interurban,"  I  said. 

"A  dummy  company?"  said  Mr.  Jason. 

"  Lively  enough  to  bid  something  over  a  hundred  thousand 
to  the  city  for  its  franchise,"  I  replied. 

Judd  Jason,  with  a  queer  look,  got  up  and  went  to  a  desk 
in  a  dark  corner,  and  after  rummaging  for  a  few  moments  in 
one  of  the  pigeon-holes,  drew  forth  a  glass  cylinder,  which 
he  held  out  as  he  approached  me. 

"You  get  it,  Mr.  Paret,"  he  said. 


330  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked,  "a  bomb  !" 

"That,"  he  announced,  as  he  twisted  the  tube  about  in 
his  long  fingers,  holding  it  up  to  the  light,  "is  the  finest 
brand  of  cigars  ever  made  in  Cuba.  A  gentleman  who  had 
every  reason  to  be  grateful  to  me  —  I  won't  say  who  he  was 
—  gave  me  that  once.  Well,  the  Lord  made  me  so's  I  can't 
appreciate  any  better  tobacco  than  those  five-cent  'Bob 
tails'  Monahan's  got  downstairs,  and  I  saved  it.  I  saved 
it  for  the  man  who  would  put  something  over  me  some  day, 
and  —  you  get  it." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said,  unconsciously  falling  in  with  the 
semi-ceremony  of  his  manner.  "I  do  not  flatter  myself 
that  the  solution  I  have  suggested  did  not  also  occur  to  you." 

"You'll  smoke  it?"  he  asked. 

"Surely." 

"  Now  ?    Here  with  me  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  I  agreed,  a  little  puzzled.  As  I  broke  the 
seal,  pulled  out  the  cork  and  unwrapped  the  cigar  from  its 
gold  foil  he  took  a  stick  and  rapped  loudly  on  the  floor. 
After  a  brief  interval  footsteps  were  heard  on  the  stairs  and 
Mike  Monahan,  white  aproned  and  scarlet  faced,  appeared 
at  the  door. 

"Bobtails,"  said  Mr.  Jason,  laconically. 

"It's  them  I  thought  ye'd  be  wanting,"  said  the  saloon 
keeper,  holding  out  a  handful.  Judd  Jason  lighted  one,  and 
began  smoking  reflectively. 

I  gazed  about  the  mean  room,  with  its  litter  of  newspapers 
and  reports,  its  shabby  furniture,  and  these  seemed  to  have 
become  incongruous,  out  of  keeping  with  the  thoughtful 
figure  in  the  chair  facing  me. 

"You  had  a  college  education,  Mr.  Paret,"  he  remarked 
at  length. 

"Yes." 

"Life's  a  queer  thing.  Now  if  I'd  had  a  college  education, 
like  you,  and  you'd  been  thrown  on  the  world,  like  me,  maybe 
I'd  be  livin'  up  there  on  Grant  Avenue  and  you'd  be  down 
here  over  the  saloon." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  331 

"Maybe,"  I  said,  wondering  uneasily  whether  he  meant 
to  imply  a  similarity  in  our  gifts.  But  his  manner  remained 
impassive,  speculative. 

"Ever  read  Carlyle's  'French  Revolution'?"  he  asked 
suddenly. 

"Why,  yes,  part  of  it,  a  good  while  ago." 

"When  you  was  in  college?" 

"Yes." 

"I've  got  a  little  library  here,"  he  said,  getting  up  and 
raising  the  shades  and  opening  the  glass  doors  of  a  bookcase 
which  had  escaped  my  attention.  He  took  down  a  volume 
of  Carlyle,  bound  in  half  calf. 

"Wouldn't  think  I  cared  for  such  things,  would  you?" 
he  demanded  as  he  handed  it  to  me. 

"Well,  you  never  can  tell  what  a  man's  real  tastes  are 
until  you  know  him,"  I  observed,  to  conceal  my  surprise. 

"That's  so,"  he  agreed.  "I  like  books  —  some  books. 
If  I'd  had  an  education,  I'd  have  liked  more  of  'em,  known 
more  about  'em.  Now  I  can  read  this  one  over  and  over. 
That  feller  Carlyle  was  a  genius,  he  could  look  right  into  the 
bowels  of  the  volcano,  and  he  was  on  to  how  men  and  women 
feel  down  there,  how  they  hate,  how  they  square  'emselves 
when  they  get  a  chance." 

He  had  managed  to  bring  before  me  vividly  that  terrible, 
volcanic  flow  on  Versailles  of  the  Paris  mob.  He  put  back 
the  book  and  resumed  his  seat. 

"And  I  know  how  these  people  feel  down  here,  below  the 
crust,"  he  went  on,  waving  his  cigar  out  of  the  window, 
as  though  to  indicate  the  whole  of  that  mean  district. 
"They  hate,  and  their  hate  is  molten  hell.  I've  been 
through  it." 

"But  you've  got  on  top,"  I  suggested. 

"  Sure,  I've  got  on  top.  Do  you  know  why  ?  it's  because 
I  hated  —  that's  why.  A  man's  feelings,  if  they're  strong 
enough,  have  a  lot  to  do  with  what  he  becomes." 

"But  he  has  to  have  ability,  too,"  I  objected. 

"  Sure,  he  has  to  have  ability,  but  his  feeling  is  the  driving 


332  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

power ;  if  he  feels  strong  enough,  he  can  make  a  little  ability 
go  a  long  way." 

I  was  struck  by  the  force  of  this  remark.  I  scarcely  rec 
ognized  Judd  Jason.  The  man,  as  he  revealed  himself,  had 
become  at  once  more  sinister  and  more  fascinating. 

"I  can  guess  how  some  of  those  Jacobins  felt  when  they 
had  the  aristocrats  in  the  dock.  They'd  got  on  top  —  the 
Jacobins,  I  mean.  It's  human  nature  to  want  to  get  on  top 
—  ain't  it  ?"  He  looked  at  me  and  smiled,  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  expect  a  reply.  "  Well,  what  you  call  society,  rich, 
respectable  society  like  you  belong  to  would  have  made  a 
bum  and  a  criminal  out  of  me  if  I  hadn't  been  too  smart  for 
'em,  and  it's  a  kind  of  satisfaction  to  have  'em  coming  down 
here  to  Monahan's  for  things  they  can't  have  without  my 
leave.  I've  got  a  half  Nelson  on  'em.  I  wouldn't  live  up  on 
Grant  Avenue  if  you  gave  me  Scherer's  new  house." 

I  was  silent. 

"Instead  of  starting  my  career  in  college,  I  started  in  jail," 
he  went  on,  apparently  ignoring  any  effect  he  may  have  pro 
duced.  So  subtly,  so  dispassionately  indeed  was  he  delivering 
himself  of  these  remarks  that  it  was  impossible  to  tell  whether 
he  meant  their  application  to  be  personal,  to  me,  or  general, 
to  my  associates.  "I  went  to  jail  when  I  was  fourteen  be 
cause  I  wanted  a  knife  to  make  kite  sticks,  and  I  stole  a  razor 
from  a  barber.  I  was  bitter  when  they  steered  me  into  a 
lockup  in  Hickory  Street.  It  was  full  of  bugs  and  crooks, 
and  they  put  me  in  the  same  cell  with  an  old-tuner  named 
'Red'  Waters,  who  was  one  of  the  slickest  safe-blowers 
around  in  those  days.  Red  took  a  shine  to  me,  found  out  I 
had  a  head-piece,  and  said  their  gang  could  use  a  clever  boy. ' 
If  I'd  go  in  with  him,  I  could  make  all  kinds  of  money.  I 
guess  I  might  have  joined  the  gang  if  Red  hadn't  kept  talk 
ing  about  how  the  boss  of  his  district  named  Gallagher  would 
come  down  and  get  him  out,  —  and  sure  enough  Gallagher 
did  come  down  and  get  him  out.  I  thought  I'd  rather  be 
Gallagher  than  Red  —  Red  had  to  serve  time  once  in  a  while. 
Soon  as  I  got  out  I  went  down  to  Gallagher's  saloon,  and 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  333 

there  was  Red  leaning  over  the  bar.  '  Here's  a  smart  kid  ! ' 
he  says, '  He  and  me  were  room-mates  over  in  Hickory  Street.' 
He  got  to  gassing  me,  and  telling  me  I'd  better  come  along 
with  him,  when  Gallagher  came  in.  *  What  is  it  ye'd  like  to 
be,  my  son?'  says  he.  A  politician,  I  told  him.  I  was 
through  going  to  jail.  Gallagher  had  a  laugh  you  could  hear 
all  over  the  place.  He  took  me  on  as  a  kind  of  handy  boy 
around  the  establishment,  and  by  and  by  I  began  to  run  er 
rands  and  find  out  things  for  him.  I  was  boss  of  that  ward  my 
self  when  I  was  twenty-six.  .  .  .  How'd  you  like  that  cigar  ?  " 

I  praised  it. 

"It  ought  to  have  been  a  good  one,"  he  declared.  "Well, 
I  don't  want  to  keep  you  here  all  afternoon  telling  you  my 
life  story." 

I  assured  him  I  had  been  deeply  interested. 

"Pretty  slick  idea  of  yours,  that  dummy  company,  Mr. 
Paret.  Go  ahead  and  organize  it."  He  rose,  which  was 
contrary  to  his  custom  on  the  departure  of  a  visitor.  "  Drop 
in  again.  We'll  talk  about  the  books."  .  .  . 

I  walked  slowly  back  reflecting  on  this  conversation,  upon 
the  motives  impelling  Mr.  Jason  to  become  thus  confiden 
tial  ;  nor  was  it  the  most  comforting  thought  in  the  world 
that  the  artist  in  me  had  appealed  to  the  artist  in  him, 
that  he  had  hailed  me  as  a  brother.  But  for  the  grace  of 
God  I  might  have  been  Mr.  Jason  and  he  Mr.  Paret :  un 
doubtedly  that  was  what  he  had  meant  to  imply.  And  I 
was  forced  to  admit  that  he  had  succeeded  —  deliberately 
or  no  —  in  making  the  respectable  Mr.  Paret  just  a  trifle 
uncomfortable. 

In  the  marble  vestibule  of  the  Corn  National  Bank  I  ran 
into  Tallant,  holding  his  brown  straw  hat  in  his  hand  and 
looking  a  little  more  moth-eaten  than  usual. 

"Hello,  Paret,"  he  said,  "how  is  that  telephone  business 
getting  along?" 

"Is  Dickinson  in?"  I  asked. 

Tallant  nodded. 

We  went  through  the  cool  bank,  with  its  shining  brass  and 


334  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

red  mahogany,  its  tiled  floor,  its  busy  tellers  attending  to 
files  of  clients,  to  the  president's  sanctum  in  the  rear.  Leon 
ard  Dickinson,  very  spruce  and  dignified  in  a  black  cutaway 
coat,  was  dictating  rapidly  to  a  woman  stenographer,  whom 
he  dismissed  when  he  saw  us.  The  door  was  shut. 

"  I  was  just  asking  Paret  about  the  telephone  affair,"  said 
Mr.  Tallant. 

"Well,  have  you  found  a  way  out?"  Leonard  Dickinson 
looked  questioningly  at  me. 

"  It's  all  right,"  I  answered.     "I've  seen  Jason." 

"All  right !"  they  both  ejaculated  at  once. 

"We  win,"  I  said. 

They  stood  gazing  at  me.  Even  Dickinson,  who  was 
rarely  ruffled,  seemed  excited. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  fixed  it?"  he  demanded. 

I  nodded.     They  stared  at  me  in  amazement. 

"  How  the  deuce  did  you  manage  it  ?  " 

"We  organize  the  Interurban  Telephone  Company,  and 
bid  for  the  franchise  —  that's  all." 

"  A  dummy  company ! "  cried  Tallant.  "  Why,  it's  simple 
as  ABC!" 

Dickinson  smiled.  He  was  tremendously  relieved,  and 
showed  it. 

"That's  true  about  all  great  ideas,  Tallant,"  he  said. 
"  They're  simple,  only  it  takes  a  clever  man  to  think  of  them." 

"  And  Jason  agrees  ?  "  Tallant  demanded. 

I  nodded  again.  "We'll  have  to  outbid  the  Automatic 
people.  I  haven't  seen  Bitter  yet  about  the  —  about  the 
fee." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Leonard  Dickinson,  quickly.  "I 
take  off  my  hat  to  you.  You've  saved  us.  You  can  ask 
any  fee  you  like,"  he  added  genially.  "Let's  go  over  to  — 
to  the  Ashuela  and  get  some  lunch."  He  had  been  about  to 
say  the  Club,  but  he  remembered  Mr.  Tallant's  presence  in 
time.  "Nothing's  worrying  you,  Hugh?"  he  added,  as  we 
went  out,  followed  by  the  glances  of  his  employees. 

"Nothing,"  I  said.  .  .  . 


XIX 


MAKING  money  in  those  days  was  so  ridiculously  easy! 
The  trouble  was  to  know  how  to  spend  it.  One  evening 
when  I  got  home  I  told  Maude  I  had  a  surprise  for  her. 

"A  surprise?"  she  asked,  looking  up  from  a  little  pink 
smock  she  was  making  for  Chickabiddy. 

"I've  bought  that  lot  on  Grant  Avenue,  next  to  the 
OgilvysV 

She  dropped  her  sewing,  and  stared  at  me. 

"Aren't  you  pleased?"  I  asked.  "At  last  we  are  going 
to  have  a  house  of  our  very  own.  What's  the  matter?" 

"  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  leaving  here.  I'm  so  used  to 
it.  I've  grown  to  love  it.  It's  part  of  me." 

"But,"  I  exclaimed,  a  little  exasperated,  "you  didn't 
expect  to  live  here  always,  did  you?  The  house  has  been 
too  small  for  us  for  years.  I  thought  you'd  be  delighted." 
(This  was  not  strictly  true,  for  I  had  rather  expected  some 
such  action  on  her  part.)  "Most  women  would.  Of  course, 
if  it's  going  to  make  such  a  difference  to  you  as  that,  I'll 
sell  the  lot.  That  won't  be  difficult." 

I  got  up,  and  started  to  go  into  my  study.  She  half 
rose,  and  her  sewing  fell  to  the  floor. 

"Oh,  why  are  we  always  having  misunderstandings?  Do 
sit  down  a  minute,  Hugh.  Don't  think  I'm  not  apprecia 
tive,"  she  pleaded.  "It  was  —  such  a  shock." 

I  sat  down  rather  reluctantly. 

"I  can't  express  what  I  think,"  she  continued,  rather 
breathlessly,  "  but  sometimes  I'm  actually  frightened,  — 
we're  going  through  life  so  fast  in  these  days,  and  it  doesn't 
seem  as  if  we  were  getting  the  real  things  out  of  it.  I'm 

335 


336  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

afraid  of  your  success,  and  of  all  the  money  you're 
making." 

I  smiled. 

"I'm  not  so  rich  yet,  as  riches  go  in  these  days,  that  you 
need  be  alarmed,"  I  said. 

She  looked  at  me  helplessly  a  moment. 

"I  feel  that  it  isn't  —  right,  somehow,  that  you'll  pay 
for  it,  that  we'll  pay  for  it.  Goodness  knows,  we  have 
everything  we  want,  and  more  too.  This  house  —  this 
house  is  real,  and  I'm  afraid  that  won't  be  a  home,  won't  be 
real.  That  we'll  be  overwhelmed  with  —  with  things !  "  .  .  . 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  children.  But 
after  dinner,  when  she  had  seen  them  to  bed,  as  was  her 
custom,  she  came  downstairs  into  my  study  and  said 
quietly :  — 

"I  was  wrong,  Hugh.  If  you  want  to  build  a  house,  if 
you  feel  that  you'd  be  happier,  I  have  no  right  to  object. 
Of  course  my  sentiment  for  this  house  is  natural,  the  children 
were  born  here,  but  I've  realized  we  couldn't  live  here  al 
ways." 

"I'm  glad  you  look  at  it  that  way,"  I  replied.  "Why, 
we're  already  getting  cramped,  Maude,  and  now  you're  going 
to  have  a  governess  I  don't  know  where  you'd  put  her." 

"Not  too  large  a  house,"  she  pleaded.  "I  know  you 
think  I'm  silly,  but  this  extravagance  we  see  everywhere 
does  make  me  uneasy.  Perhaps  it's  because  I'm  provincial, 
and  always  shall  be." 

"Well,  we  must  have  a  house  large  enough  to  be  comfort 
able  in,"  I  said.  "There's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  be 
comfortable."  I  thought  it  as  well  not  to  confess  my  ambi 
tions,  and  I  was  greatly  relieved  that  she  did  not  reproach 
me  for  buying  the  lot  without  consulting  her.  Indeed,  I 
was  grateful  for  this  unanticipated  acquiescence,  I  felt 
nearer  to  her  than  I  had  for  a  long  time.  I  drew  up  another 
chair  to  my  desk. 

"Sit  down  and  we'll  make  a  few  sketches,  just  for  fun," 
I  urged. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  337 

"Hugh,"  she  said  presently,  as  we  were  blocking  out  pro 
spective  rooms,  "do  you  remember  all  those  drawings  and 
plans  we  made  in  England,  on  our  wedding  trip,  and  how  we 
knew  just  what  we  wanted,  and  changed  our  minds  every 
few  days?  And  now  we're  ready  to  build,  and  haven't 
any  ideas  at  all !" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  —  but  I  did  not  look  at  her. 

"I  have  the  book  still  —  it's  in  the  attic  somewhere, 
packed  away  in  a  box.  I  suppose  those  plans  would  seem 
ridiculous  now."  .  .  . 

It  was  quite  true, — now  that  we  were  ready  to  build  the 
home  that  had  been  deferred  so  long,  now  that  I  had  the  money 
to  spend  without  stint  on  its  construction,  the  irony  of  life 
had  deprived  me  of  those  strong  desires  and  predilections  I 
had  known  on  my  wedding  trip.  What  a  joy  it  would  have 
been  to  build  then !  But  now  I  found  myself  wholly  lacking 
in  definite  ideas  as  to  style  and  construction.  Secretly,  I 
looked  forward  to  certain  luxuries,  such  as  a  bedroom  and 
dressing-room  and  warm  tiled  bathroom  all  to  myself  — 
bachelor  privacies  for  which  I  had  longed.  Two  mornings 
later  at  the  breakfast  table  Maude  asked  me  if  I  had  thought 
of  an  architect. 

"Why,  Archie  Lammerton,  I  suppose.  Who  else  is  there  ? 
Have  you  anyone  else  in  mind?" 

"  N-no,"  said  Maude.  "  But  I  heard  of  such  a  clever  man 
in  Boston,  who  doesn't  charge  Mr.  Lammerton's  prices,  and 
who  designs  such  beautiful  private  houses." 

"  But  we  can  afford  to  pay  Lammerton's  prices,"  I  replied, 
smiling.     "And  why  shouldn't  we  have  the  best?" 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  the  best,  Hugh?" 

"Everybody  has  him,"  I  said. 

Maude  smiled  in  return. 

"I  suppose  that's  a  good  reason,"  she  answered. 

"Of  course  it's  a  good  reason,"  I  assured  her.  "These 
people  —  the  people  we  know  —  wouldn't  have  had  Lammer 
ton  unless  he  was  satisfactory.  What's  the  matter  with 
his  houses?" 


338  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Well,"  said  Maude,  "they're  not  very  original.  I 
don't  say  they're  not  good,  in  a  way,  but  they  lack  a  certain 
imagination.  It's  difficult  for  me  to  express  what  I  mean, 
'machine  made'  isn't  precisely  the  idea,  but  there  should 
be  a  certain  irregularity  in  art  —  shouldn't  there  ?  I  saw  a 
reproduction  in  one  of  the  architectural  journals  of  a  house 
in  Boston  by  a  man  named  Frey,  that  seemed  to  me  to  have 
great  charm." 

Here  was  Lucia,  unmistakably. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  I  said  impatiently,  "but  when  one 
has  to  live  in  a  house,  one  wants  something  more  than  artistic 
irregularity.  Lammerton  knows  how  to  build  for  everyday 
existence ;  he's  a  practical  man,  as  well  as  a  man  of  taste,  — 
he  may  not  be  a  Christopher  Wrenn,  but  he  understands 
conveniences  and  comforts.  His  chimneys  don't  smoke,  his 
windows  are  tight,  he  knows  what  systems  of  heating  are 
the  best,  and  whom  to  go  to :  he  knows  what  good  plumbing 
is.  I'm  rather  surprised  you  don't  appreciate  that,  Maude, 
you're  so  particular  as  to  what  kind  of  rooms  the  children 
shall  have,  and  you  want  a  schoolroom-nursery  with  all  the 
latest  devices,  with  sun  and  ventilation.  The  Berringers 
wouldn't  have  had  him,  the  Hollisters  and  Dickinsons 
wouldn't  have  had  him  if  his  work  lacked  taste." 

"And  Nancy  wouldn't  have  had  him,"  added  Maude, 
and  she  smiled  once  more. 

"Well,  I  haven't  consulted  Nancy,  or  anyone  else,"  I 
replied  —  a  little  tartly,  perhaps.  "You  don't  seem  to 
realize  that  some  fashions  may  have  a  basis  of  reason.  They 
are  not  all  silly,  as  Lucia  seems  to  think.  If  Lammerton 
builds  satisfactory  houses,  he  ought  to  be  forgiven  for  being 
the  fashion,  he  ought  to  have  a  chance."  I  got  up  to  leave. 
"Let's  see  what  kind  of  a  plan  he'll  draw  up,  at  any  rate." 

Her  glance  was  almost  indulgent. 

"Of  course,  Hugh.  I  want  you  to  be  satisfied,  to  be 
pleased,"  she  said. 

"And  you?"  I  questioned,  "you  are  to  live  in  the  house 
more  than  I." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  339 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  it  will  turn  out  all  right,"  she  replied. 
"  Now  you'd  better  run  along,  I  know  you're  late." 

"I  am  late,"  I  admitted,  rather  lamely.  "If  you  don't 
care  for  Lammerton's  drawings,  we'll  get  another  architect." 

Several  years  before  Mr.  Lammerton  had  arrived  among 
us  with  a  Beaux  Arts  moustache  and  letters  of  introduction 
to  Mrs.  Durrett  and  others.  We  found  him  the  most  adap 
table,  the  most  accommodating  of  young  men,  always  ready 
to  donate  his  talents  and  his  services  to  private  theatricals, 
tableaux,  and  fancy-dress  balls,  to  take  a  place  at  a  table 
at  the  last  moment.  One  of  his  most  appealing  attributes 
was  his  "belief"  in  our  city,  —  a  form  of  patriotism  that 
culminated,  in  later  years,  in  "million  population"  clubs. 
I  have  often  heard  him  declare,  when  the  ladies  had  left  the 
dining-room,  that  there  was  positively  no  limit  to  our  future 
growth;  and,  incidentally,  to  our  future  wealth.  Such 
sentiments  as  these  could  not  fail  to  add  to  any  man's  popular 
ity,  and  his  success  was  a  foregone  conclusion.  Almost  be 
fore  we  knew  it  he  was  building  the  new  Union  Station  of 
which  he  had  foreseen  the  need,  to  take  care  of  the  millions 
to  which  our  population  was  to  be  swelled;  building  the 
new  Post  Office  that  the  unceasing  efforts  of  Theodore 
Watling  finally  procured  for  us:  building,  indeed,  Nancy's 
new  house,  the  largest  of  our  private  mansions  save  Mr. 
Scherer's,  a  commission  that  had  immediately  brought  about 
others  from  the  Dickinsons  and  the  Berringers.  .  .  .  That 
very  day  I  called  on  him  in  his  offices  at  the  top  of  one  of 
our  new  buildings,  where  many  young  draftsmen  were 
bending  over  their  boards.  I  was  ushered  into  his  private 
studio. 

"I  suppose  you  want  something  handsome,  Hugh,"  he 
said,  looking  at  me  over  his  cigarette,  "something  commen 
surate  with  these  fees  I  hear  you  are  getting." 

"Well,  I  want  to  be  comfortable,"  I  admitted. 

We  lunched  at  the  Club  together,  where  we  talked  over  the 
requirements. 


340  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

When  he  came  to  dinner  the  next  week  and  spread  out  his 
sketch  on  the  living-room  table  Maude  drew  in  her  breath. 

"Why,  Hugh,"  she  exclaimed  in  dismay,  "it's  as  big  as  — 
as  big  as  the  White  House !" 

"Not  quite,"  I  answered,  laughing  with  Archie.  "We 
may  as  well  take  our  ease  in  our  old  age." 

"Take  our  ease!"  echoed  Maude.  "We'll  rattle  'round 
in  it.  I'll  never  get  used  to  it." 

"After  a  month,  Mrs.  Paret,  I'll  wager  you'll  be  wondering 
how  you  ever  got  along  without  it,"  said  Archie. 

It  was  not  as  big  as  the  White  House,  yet  it  could  not  be 
called  small.  I  had  seen  to  that.  The  long  facade  was 
imposing,  dignified,  with  a  touch  of  conventionality  and 
solidity  in  keeping  with  my  standing  in  the  city.  It  was 
Georgian,  of  plum-coloured  brick  with  marble  trimmings 
and  marble  wedges  over  the  ample  windows;  some  years 
later  I  saw  the  house  by  Ferguson,  of  New  York,  from  which 
Archie  had  cribbed  it.  At  one  end,  off  the  dining-room, 
was  a  semicircular  conservatory.  There  was  a  small  portico, 
with  marble  pillars,  and  in  the  ample,  swift-sloping  roof  many 
dormers;  servants'  rooms,  Archie  explained.  The  look  of 
anxiety  on  Maude's  face  deepened  as  he  went  over  the  floor 
plans,  the  reception-room,  dining-room  to  seat  thirty,  the 
servants'  hall,  and  upstairs  Maude's  room,  boudoir  and  bath 
and  dress  closet,  my  "apartments"  adjoining  on  one  side 
and  the  children's  on  the  other,  and  the  guest-rooms  with 
baths.  .  .  . 

Maude  surrendered,  as  one  who  gives  way  to  the  inevitable. 
When  the  actual  building  began  we  both  of  us  experienced,  I 
think,  a  certain  mild  excitement,  and  walked  out  there, 
sometimes  with  the  children,  in  the  spring  evenings  and  on 
Sunday  afternoons.  "Excitement"  is,  perhaps,  too  strong 
a  word  for  my  feelings :  there  was  a  pleasurable  anticipation 
on  my  part,  a  looking  forward  to  a  more  decorous,  a  more 
luxurious  existence;  a  certain  impatience  at  the  delays 
inevitable  in  building.  But  a  new  legal-commercial  enter 
prise  of  magnitude  began  to  absorb  me  at  this  time,  and  some- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  341 

how  the  building  of  this  home  —  the  first  that  we  possessed 
—  was  not  the  event  it  should  have  been;  there  were  mo 
ments  when  I  felt  cheated,  when  I  wondered  what  had  become 
of  that  capacity  for  enjoyment  which  in  my  youth  had  been 
so  keen.  I  remember  indeed,  one  grey  evening  when  I  went 
there  alone,  after  the  workmen  had  departed,  and  stood  in 
the  litter  of  mortar  and  bricks  and  boards  gazing  at  the 
completed  front  of  the  house.  It  was  even  larger  than  I 
had  imagined  it  from  the  plans ;  in  the  summer  twilight  there 
was  an  air  about  it,  —  if  not  precisely  menacing,  at  least 
portentous,  with  its  gaping  windows  and  towering  roof.  I 
was  a  little  tired  from  a  hard  day ;  I  had  the  odd  feeling  of 
having  raised  up  something  with  which  —  momentarily  at 
least  —  I  doubted  my  ability  to  cope :  something  huge, 
impersonal;  something  that  ought  to  have  represented  a 
fireside,  a  sanctuary,  and  yet  was  the  embodiment  of  an 
element  quite  alien  to  the  home,  a  restless  element  with  which 
our  American  atmosphere  had,  by  invisible  degrees,  become 
charged.  As  I  stared  at  it,  the  odd  fancy  seized  me  that  the 
building  somehow  typified  my  own  career.  ...  I  had 
gained  something,  in  truth,  but  had  I  not  also  missed  some 
thing?  something  a  different  home  would  have  embodied? 

Maude  and  the  children  had  gone  to  the  seaside. 

With  a  vague  uneasiness  I  turned  away  from  the  contem 
plation  of  those  walls.  The  companion  mansions  were  closed, 
their  blinds  tightly  drawn ;  the  neighbourhood  was  as  quiet 
as  the  country,  —  save  for  a  slight  but  persistent  noise  that 
impressed  itself  on  my  consciousness.  I  walked  around  the 
house  to  spy,  in  the  back  yard,  a  young  girl  rather  stealthily 
gathering  laths  and  fragments  of  joists  and  flooring,  and 
loading  them  into  a  child's  express-wagon.  She  started  when 
she  saw  me.  She  was  little  more  than  a  child,  and  the  loose 
calico  dress  she  wore  seemed  to  emphasize  her  thinness.  She 
stood  stock-still,  staring  at  me  with  frightened  yet  defiant 
eyes.  I,  too,  felt  a  strange  timidity  in  her  presence. 

"Why  do  you  stop?"  I  asked  at  length. 

"Say,  is  this  your  house?"  she  demanded. 


342  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

I  acknowledged  it.  A  hint  of  awe  widened  her  eyes. 
Then  she  glanced  at  the  half-filled  wagon. 

"This  stuff  ain't  no  use  to  you,  is  it?" 

"No,  I'm  glad  to  have  you  take  it." 

She  shifted  to  the  other  foot,  but  did  not  continue  her 
gathering.  An  impulse  seized  me,  I  put  down  my  walking- 
stick  and  began  picking  up  pieces  of  wood,  flinging  them  into 
the  wagon.  I  looked  at  her  again,  rather  furtively ;  she  had 
not  moved.  Her  attitude  puzzled  me,  for  it  was  one  neither 
of  surprise  nor  of  protest.  The  spectacle  of  the  "  millionaire  " 
owner  of  the  house  engaged  in  this  menial  occupation 
gave  her  no  thrills.  I  finished  the  loading. 

"  There  1"  I  said,  and  drew  a  dollar  bill  out  of  my  pocket 
and  gave  it  to  her.  Even  then  she  did  not  thank  me,  but 
took  up  the  wagon  tongue  and  went  off,  leaving  on  me  a 
disheartening  impression  of  numbness,  of  life  crushed  out. 
I  glanced  up  once  more  at  the  mansion  I  had  built  for  myself 
looming  in  the  dusk,  and  walked  hurriedly  away.  .  .  . 


One  afternoon  some  three  weeks  after  we  had  moved  into 
the  new  house,  I  came  out  of  the  Club,  where  I  had  been 
lunching  in  conference  with  Scherer  and  two  capitalists 
from  New  York.  It  was  after  four  o'clock,  the  day  was 
fading,  the  street  lamps  were  beginning  to  cast  sickly  streaks 
of  jade-coloured  light  across  the  slush  of  the  pavements. 
It  was  the  sight  of  this  slush  (which  for  a  brief  half  hour  that 
morning  had  been  pure  snow,  and  had  sent  Matthew  and 
Moreton  and  Biddy  into  ecstasies  at  the  notion  of  a  "real 
Christmas"),  that  brought  to  my  mind  the  imminence  of 
the  festival,  and  the  fact  that  I  had  as  yet  bought  no  pres 
ents.  Such  was  the  predicament  in  which  I  usually  found 
myself  on  Christmas  eve ;  and  it  was  not  without  a  certain 
sense  of  annoyance  at  the  task  thus  abruptly  confronting 
me  that  I  got  into  my  automobile  and  directed  the  chauffeur 
to  the  shopping  district.  The  crowds  surged  along  the  wet 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  343 

sidewalks  and  overflowed  into  the  street,  and  over  the  heads 
of  the  people  I  stared  at  the  blazing  shop-windows  decked 
out  in  Christmas  greens.  My  chauffeur,  a  bristly-haired 
Parisian,  blew  his  horn  insolently,  men  and  women  jostled 
each  other  to  get  out  of  the  way,  their  holiday  mood  giving 
place  to  resentment  as  they  stared  into  the  windows  of  the 
limousine.  With  the  American  inability  to  sit  still  I  shifted 
from  one  corner  of  the  seat  to  another,  impatient  at  the  slow 
progress  of  the  machine :  and  I  felt  a  certain  contempt  for 
human  beings,  that  they  should  make  all  this  fuss,  burden 
themselves  with  all  these  senseless  purchases,  for  a  tradition. 
The  automobile  stopped,  and  I  fought  my  way  across  the 
sidewalk  into  the  store  of  that  tune-honoured  firm,  Elgin, 
Yates  and  Garner,  pausing  uncertainly  before  the  very 
counter  where,  some  ten  years  before,  I  had  bought  an  en 
gagement  ring.  Young  Mr.  Garner  himself  spied  me,  and 
handing  over  a  customer  to  a  tired  clerk,  hurried  forward  to 
greet  me,  his  manner  implying  that  my  entrance  was  in  some 
sort  an  event.  I  had  become  used  to  this  aroma  of  defer 
ence. 

"  What  can  I  show  you,  Mr.  Paret  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  —  I'm  looking  around,"  I  said,  vaguely, 
bewildered  by  the  glittering  baubles  by  which  I  was  con 
fronted.  What  did  Maude  want  ?  While  I  was  gazing  into 
the  case,  Mr.  Garner  opened  a  safe  behind  him,  laying  before 
me  a  large  sapphire  set  with  diamonds  in  a  platinum  brooch ; 
a  beautiful  stone,  in  the  depths  of  it  gleaming  a  fire  like  a 
star  in  an  arctic  sky.  I  had  not  given  Maude  anything  of 
value  of  late.  Decidedly,  this  was  of  value;  Mr.  Garner 
named  the  price  glibly ;  if  Mrs.  Paret  didn't  care  for  it,  it 
might  be  brought  back  or  exchanged.  I  took  it,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief.  Leaving  the  store,  I  paused  on  the  edge  of  the  rush 
ing  stream  of  humanity,  with  the  problem  of  the  children's 
gifts  still  to  be  solved.  I  thought  of  my  own  childhood, 
when  at  Christmastide  I  had  walked  with  my  mother  up  and 
down  this  very  street,  so  changed  and  modernized  now ;  re 
calling  that  I  had  had  definite  desires,  desperate  ones ;  but 


344  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

my  imagination  failed  me  when  I  tried  to  summon  up  the 
emotions  connected  with  them.  I  had  no  desires  now :  I 
could  buy  anything  in  reason  in  the  whole  street.  What 
did  Matthew  and  Moreton  want  ?  and  little  Biddy  ?  Maude 
had  not  "spoiled"  them;  but  they  didn't  seem  to  have  any 
definite  wants.  The  children  made  me  think,  with  a  sudden 
softening,  of  Tom  Peters,  and  I  went  into  a  tobacconist's  * 
and  bought  him  a  box  of  expensive  cigars.  Then  I  told  the 
chauffeur  to  take  me  to  a  toy-shop,  where  I  stood  staring 
through  a  plate-glass  window  at  the  elaborate  playthings 
devised  for  the  modern  children  of  luxury.  In  the  centre 
was  a  toy  man-of-war,  three  feet  in  length,  with  turrets  and 
guns,  and  propellers  and  a  real  steam-engine.  As  a  boy  I 
should  have  dreamed  about  it,  schemed  for  it,  bartered  my 
immortal  soul  for  it.  But  —  if  I  gave  it  to  Matthew,  what 
was  there  for  Moreton  ?  A  steam  locomotive  caught  my  eye, 
almost  as  elaborate.  Forcing  my  way  through  the  doors, 
I  captured  a  salesman,  and  from  a  state  bordering  on  nervous 
collapse  he  became  galvanized  into  an  intense  alertness  and 
respect  when  he  understood  my  desires.  He  didn't  know 
the  price  of  the  objects  in  question.  He  brought  the  pro 
prietor,  an  obsequious  little  German  who,  on  learning  my 
name,  repeated  it  in  every  sentence.  For  Biddy  I  chose  a 
doll  that  was  all  but  human ;  when  held  by  a  young  woman 
for  my  inspection,  it  elicited  murmurs  of  admiration  from  the 
women  shoppers  by  whom  we  were  surrounded.  The  pro 
prietor  promised  to  make  a  special  delivery  of  the  three 
articles  before  seven  o'clock.  .  .  . 

Presently  the  automobile,  after  speeding  up  the  asphalt  of  ^ 
Grant  Avenue,  stopped  before  the  new  house.  In  spite  of 
the  change  that  house  had  made  in  my  life,  in  three  weeks  I 
had  become  amazingly  used  to  it ;  yet  I  had  an  odd  feeling 
that  Christmas  eve  as  I  stood  under  the  portico  with  my  key 
in  the  door,  the  same  feeling  of  the  impersonality  of  the  place 
which  I  had  experienced  before.  Not  that  for  one  moment 
I  would  have  exchanged  it  for  the  smaller  house  we  had  left. 
I  opened  the  door.  How  often,  in  that  other  house,  I  had 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  345 

come  in  the  evening  seeking  quiet,  my  brain  occupied  with  a 
problem,  only  to  be  annoyed  by  the  romping  of  the  children 
on  the  landing  above.  A  noise  in  one  end  of  it  echoed  to  the 
other.  But  here,  as  I  entered  the  hall,  all  was  quiet :  a 
dignified,  deep-carpeted  stairway  swept  upward  before  me, 
and  on  either  side  were  wide,  empty  rooms ;  and  in  the  sub 
dued  light  of  one  of  them  I  saw  a  dark  figure  moving 
silently  about  —  the  butler.  He  came  forward  to  relieve  me, 
deftly,  of  my  hat  and  overcoat.  Well,  I  had  it  at  last,  this 
establishment  to  which  I  had  for  so  long  looked  forward. 
And  yet  that  evening,  as  I  hesitated  in  the  hall,  I  somehow 
was  unable  to  grasp  that  it  was  real  and  permanent,  the  very 
solidity  of  the  walls  and  doors  paradoxically  suggested  tran- 
sientness,  the  butler  a  flitting  ghost.  How  still  the  place 
was!  Almost  oppressively  still.  I  recalled  oddly  a  story 
of  a  peasant  who,  yearning  for  the  great  life,  had  stumbled 
upon  an  empty  palace,  its  tables  set  with  food  in  golden 
dishes.  Before  two  days  had  passed  he  had  fled  from  it 
in  horror  back  to  his  crowded  cottage  and  his  drudgery  in 
the  fields.  Never  once  had  the  sense  of  possession  of  the 
palace  been  realized.  Nor  did  I  feel  that  I  possessed  this 
house,  though  I  had  the  deeds  of  it  in  my  safe  and  the  receipted 
bills  in  my  files.  It  eluded  me ;  seemed,  in  my  bizarre  mood 
of  that  evening,  almost  to  mock  me.  "You  have  built  me," 
it  seemed  to  say,  "  but  I  am  stronger  than  you,  because  you 
have  not  earned  me."  Ridiculous,  when  the  years  of  my 
labour  and  the  size  of  my  bank  account  were  considered ! 
Such,  however,  is  the  verbal  expression  of  my  feeling.  Was 
the  house  empty,  after  all  ?  Had  something  happened  ? 
With  a  slight  panicky  sensation  I  climbed  the  stairs,  with 
their  endless  shallow  treads,  to  hurry  through  the  silent 
hallway  to  the  schoolroom.  Reassuring  noises  came  faintly 
through  the  heavy  door.  I  opened  it.  Little  Biddy  was 
careening  round  and  round,  crying  out :  — 

"To-morrow's  Chris'masI  Santa  Glaus  is  coming  to 
night." 

Matthew    was    regarding    her   indulgently,    sympatheti- 


346  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

cally,  Moreton  rather  scornfully.  The  myth  had  been 
exploded  for  both,  but  Matthew  still  hugged  it.  That  was 
the  difference  between  them.  Maude,  seated  on  the  floor, 
perceived  me  first,  and  glanced  up  at  me  with  a  smile. 

"It's  father!"  she  said. 

Biddy  stopped  in  the  midst  of  a  pirouette.  At  the  age  of 
seven  she  was  still  shy  with  me,  and  retreated  towards 
Maude. 

"Aren't  we  going  to  have  a  tree,  father?"  demanded 
Moreton,  aggressively.  "Mother  won't  tell  us  —  neither 
will  Miss  Allsop." 

Miss  Allsop  was  their  governess. 

"Why  do  you  want  a  tree?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  for  Biddy,"  he  said. 

"It  wouldn't  be  Christmas  without  a  tree,"  Matthew  de 
clared,  "  —  and  Santa  Glaus,"  he  added,  for  his  sister's 
benefit. 

"Perhaps  Santa  Glaus,  when  he  sees  we've  got  this  big 
house,  will  think  we  don't  need  anything,  and  go  on  to  some 
poorer  children,"  said  Maude.  "You  wouldn't  blame  him 
if  he  did  that,  —  would  you?" 

The  response  to  this  appeal  cannot  be  said  to  have  been 
enthusiastic.  .  .  . 

After  dinner,  when  at  last  all  of  them  were  in  bed,  we 
dressed  the  tree ;  it  might  better  be  said  that  Maude  and  Miss 
Allsop  dressed  it,  while  I  gave  a  perfunctory  aid.  Both  the 
women  took  such  a  joy  in  the  process,  vying  with  each  other 
in  getting  effects,  and  as  I  watched  them  eagerly  draping 
the  tinsel  and  pinning  on  the  glittering  ornaments  I  wondered 
why  it  was  that  I  was  unable  to  find  the  same  joy  as  they. 
Thus  it  had  been  every  Christmas  eve.  I  was  always  tired 
when  I  got  home,  and  after  dinner  relaxation  set  in. 

An  electrician  had  come  while  we  were  at  the  table,  and 
had  fastened  on  the  little  electric  bulbs  which  did  duty  as 
candles. 

"Oh,"  said  Maude,  as  she  stood  off  to  survey  the  effect, 
"  isn't  it  beautiful !  Come,  Miss  Allsop,  let's  get  the  presents." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  347 

They  flew  out  of  the  room,  and  presently  hurried  back  with 
their  arms  full  of  the  usual  parcels:  parcels  from  Maude's 
family  in  Elkington,  from  my  own  relatives,  from  the  Black- 
woods  and  the  Peterses,  from  Nancy.  In  the  meantime  I 
had  had  my  own  contributions  brought  up,  the  man  of  war, 
the  locomotive,  the  big  doll.  Maude  stood  staring. 

"Hugh,  they'll  be  utterly  ruined!"  she  exclaimed. 

"The  boys  might  as  well  have  something  instructive,"  I 
replied,  "and  as  for  Biddy  —  nothing's  too  good  for  her." 

"  I  might  have  known  you  wouldn't  forget  them,  although 
you  are  so  busy."  .  .  . 

We  filled  the  three  stockings  hung  by  the  great  fireplace. 
Then,  with  a  last  lingering  look  at  the  brightness  of  the  tree, 
she  stood  in  the  doorway  and  turned  the  electric  switch. 

"Not  before  seven  to-morrow  morning,  Miss  Allsop," 
she  said.  "Hugh,  you  will  get  up,  won't  you?  You 
mustn't  miss  seeing  them.  You  can  go  back  to  bed  again." 

I  promised. 

Evidently,  this  was  Reality  to  Maude.  And  had  it  not 
been  one  of  my  dreams  of  marriage,  this  preparing  for  the 
children's  Christmas,  remembering  the  fierce  desires  of  my 
own  childhood?  It  struck  me,  after  I  had  kissed  her  good 
night  and  retired  to  my  dressing-room,  that  fierce  desires 
burned  within  me  still,  but  the  objects  towards  which  their 
flames  leaped  out  differed.  That  was  all.  Had  I  remained  a 
child,  since  my  idea  of  pleasure  was  still  that  of  youth  ?  The 
craving  for  excitement,  adventure,  was  still  unslaked ;  the 
craving  for  freedom  as  keen  as  ever.  During  the  whole 
of  my  married  life,  I  had  been  conscious  of  an  inner  protest , 
against  "settling  down,"  as  Tom  Peters  had  settled  down. 
The  smaller  house  from  which  we  had  moved,  with  its  en 
forced  propinquity,  had  emphasized  the  bondage  of  marriage. 
Now  I  had  two  rooms  to  myself,  in  the  undisputed  possession 
of  which  I  had  taken  a  puerile  delight.  On  one  side  of  my 
dressing-room  Archie  Lammerton  had  provided  a  huge 
closet  containing  the  latest  devices  for  the  keeping  of  a 
multitudinous  wardrobe ;  there  was  a  reading-lamp,  and  the 


348  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

easiest  of  easy-chairs,  imported  from  England,  while  between 
the  windows  were  shelves  of  Italian  walnut  which  I  had  filled 
with  the  books  I  had  bought  while  at  Cambridge,  and  had 
never  since  opened.  As  I  sank  down  in  my  chair  that  odd 
feeling  of  uneasiness,  of  transience  and  unreality,  of  unsatis- 
faction  I  had  had  ever  since  we  had  moved  suddenly 
became  intensified,  and  at  the  very  moment  when  I  had 
gained  everything  I  had  once  believed  a  man  could  desire ! 
I  was  successful,  I  was  rich,  my  health  had  not  failed,  I  had 
a  wife  who  catered  to  my  wishes,  lovable  children  who  gave 
no  trouble  and  yet  —  there  was  still  the  void  to  be  filled, 
the  old  void  I  had  felt  as  a  boy,  the  longing  for  something 
beyond  me,  I  knew  not  what ;  there  was  the  strange  inability 
to  taste  any  of  these  things,  the  need  at  every  turn  for  excite- 
ent,  for  a  stimulus.  My  marriage  had  been  a  disappoint 
ment,  though  I  strove  to  conceal  this  from  myself;  a  dis 
appointment  because  it  had  not  filled  the  requirements  of 
my  category  —  excitement  and  mystery :  I  had  provided  the 
setting  and  lacked  the  happiness.  Another  woman  — 
Nancy  —  might  have  given  me  the  needed  stimulation; 
and  yet  my  thoughts  did  not  dwell  on  Nancy  that  night,  my 
longings  were  not  directed  towards  her,  but  towards  the 
vision  of  a  calm,  contented  married  happiness  I  had  looked 
forward  to  in  youth,  —  a  vision  suddenly  presented  once 
more  by  the  sight  of  Maude's  simple  pleasure  in  dressing  the 
Christmas  tree.  What  restless,  fiendish  element  in  me  pre 
vented  my  enjoying  that?  I  had  something  of  the  fearful 
feeling  of  a  ghost  in  my  own  house  and  among  my  own  family, 
of  a  spirit  doomed  to  wander,  unable  to  share  in  what  should 
have  been  my  own,  in  what  would  have  saved  me  were  I 
able  to  partake  of  it.  Was  it  too  late  to  make  that  effort? 
.  .  .  Presently  the  strains  of  music  pervaded  my  conscious 
ness,  the  chimes  of  Trinity  ringing  out  in  the  damp  night 
the  Christmas  hymn,  Adeste  Fideles.  It  was  midnight  — 
it  was  Christmas.  How  clear  the  notes  rang  through  the 
wet  air  that  came  in  at  my  window!  Back  into  the  dim 
centuries  that  music  led  me,  into  candle-lit  Gothic  chapels 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  349 

of  monasteries  on  wind-swept  heights  above  the  firs,  and 
cathedrals  in  mediaeval  cities.  Twilight  ages  of  war  and 
scourge  and  stress  and  storm  —  and  faith.  "  Oh,  come,  all 
ye  Faithful !"  What  a  strange  thing,  that  faith  whose  flame 
so  marvellously  persisted,  piercing  the  gloom;  the  Christ 
mas  myth,  as  I  had  heard  someone  once  call  it.  Did  it 
possess  the  power  to  save  me?  Save  me  from  what?  Ah, 
in  this  hour  I  knew.  In  the  darkness  the  Danger  loomed  up 
before  me,  vague  yet  terrible,  and  I  trembled.  Why  was 
not  this  Thing  ever  present,  to  chasten  and  sober  me  ?  The 
Thing  was  myself. 

Into  my  remembrance,  by  what  suggestion  I  know  not, 
came  that  March  evening  when  I  had  gone  to  Holden  Chapel 
at  Harvard  to  listen  to  a  preacher,  a  personality  whose  fame 
and  influence  had  since  spread  throughout  the  land.  Some 
dun  fear  had  possessed  me  then.  I  recalled  vividly  the  man, 
and  the  face  of  Hermann  Krebs  as  I  drew  back  from  the 
doorway.  .  .  . 


When  I  awoke  my  disquieting,  retrospective  mood  had 
disappeared,  and  yet  there  clung  to  me,  minus  the  sanction 
of  fear  or  reward  or  revealed  truth,  a  certain  determination 
to  behave,  on  this  day  at  least,  more  like  a  father  and  a  hus 
band  :  to  make  an  effort  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  festi 
val,  and  see  what  happened.  I  dressed  in  cheerful  haste, 
took  the  sapphire  pendant  from  its  velvet  box,  tiptoed  into 
the  still  silent  schoolroom  and  hung  it  on  the  tree,  flooding 
on  the  electric  light  that  set  the  tinsel  and  globes  ablaze. 
No  sooner  had  I  done  this  than  I  heard  the  patter  of  feet  in 
the  hallway,  and  a  high-pitched  voice  —  Biddy's  —  crying 
out:  — 

"It's  Santa  Glaus!" 

Three  small,  flannel-wrappered  figures  stood  in  the  door 
way. 

"Why,  it's  father!"  exclaimed  Moreton. 

"And  he's  all  dressed!"  said  Matthew. 


350  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Oh-h-h!"  cried  Biddy,  staring  at  the  blazing  tree,  "isn't 
it  beautiful!" 

Maude  was  close  behind  them.  She  gave  an  exclamation 
of  delighted  surprise  when  she  saw  me,  and  then  stood  gazing 
with  shining  eyes  at  the  children,  especially  at  Biddy,  who 
,  stood  dazzled  by  the  glory  of  the  constellation  confronting 
her.  Matthew,  too,  wished  to  prolong  the  moment  of 
mystery.  It  was  the  practical  Moreton  who  cried  :  — 

"Let's  see  what  we've  got !" 

The  assault  and  the  sacking  began.  I  couldn't  help 
thinking  as  I  watched  them  of  my  own  wildly  riotous, 
Christmas-morning  sensations,  when  all  the  gifts  had  worn 
the  aura  of  the  supernatural ;  but  the  arrival  of  these  toys 
was  looked  upon  by  my  children  as  a  part  of  the  natural 
order  of  the  universe.  At  Maude's  suggestion  the  night 
before  we  had  placed  my  presents,  pieces  de  resistance,  at  a 
distance  from  the  tree,  in  the  hope  that  they  would  not  be 
spied  at  once,  that  they  would  be  in  some  sort  a  climax.  It 
was  Matthew  who  first  perceived  the  ship,  and  identified  it, 
by  the  card,  as  his  property.  To  him  it  was  clearly  wonder 
ful,  but  no  miracle.  He  did  not  cry  out,  or  call  the  atten 
tion  of  the  others  to  it,  but  stood  with  his  feet  apart,  exam 
ining  it,  his  first  remark  being  a  query  as  to  why  it  didn't  fly 
the  American  flag.  It's  ensign  was  British.  Then  Moreton 
saw  the  locomotive,  was  told  that  it  was  his,  and  took  pos 
session  of  it  violently.  Why  wasn't  there  more  track? 
Wouldn't  I  get  more  track?  I  explained  that  it  would  go 
by  steam,  and  he  began  unscrewing  the  cap  on  the  little 
boiler  until  he  was  distracted  by  the  man-of-war,  and  with 
natural  acquisitiveness  started  to  take  possession  of  that. 
Biddy  was  bewildered  by  the  doll,  which  Maude  had  taken 
up  and  was  holding  in  her  lap.  She  had  had  talking  dolls 
before,  and  dolls  that  closed  their  eyes;  she  recognized 
this  one,  indeed,  as  a  sort  of  super-doll,  but  her  little  mind 
was  modern,  too,  and  set  no  limits  on  what  might  be  accom 
plished.  She  patted  it,  but  was  more  impressed  by  the 
raptures  of  Miss  Allsop,  who  had  come  in  and  was  admiring 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  351 

it  with  some  extravagance.  Suddenly  the  child  caught 
sight  of  her  stocking,  until  now  forgotten,  and  darted  for 
the  fireplace. 

I  turned  to  Maude,  who  stood  beside  me,  watching  them. 

"But  you  haven't  looked  on  the  tree  yourself,"  I  reminded 
her. 

She  gave  me  an  odd,  questioning  glance,  and  got  up  and  set 
down  the  doll.  As  she  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  at  the 
lights,  she  seemed  very  girlish  in  her  dressing-gown,  with  her 
hair  in  two  long  plaits  down  her  back. 

"Oh,  Hughl"  She  lifted  the  pendant  from  the  branch 
and  held  it  up.  Her  gratitude,  her  joy  at  receiving  a  present 
was  deeper  than  the  children's ! 

"You  chose  it  for  me?" 

I  felt  something  like  a  pang  when  I  thought  how  little 
trouble  it  had  been. 

"If  you  don't  like  it,"  I  said,  "or  wish  to  have  it 
changed  — " 

"Changed!"  she  exclaimed  reproachfully.  "Do  you 
think  I'd  change  it?  Only  — it's  much  too  valuable — " 

I  smiled.  .  .  .  Miss  Allsop  deftly  undid  the  clasp  and 
hung  it  around  Maude's  neck. 

"How  it  suits  you,  Mrs.  Paret !"  she  cried.  .  .  . 

This  pendant  was  by  no  means  the  only  present  I  had 
given  Maude  in  recent  years,  and  though  she  cared  as  little 
for  jewels  as  for  dress  she  seemed  to  attach  to  it  a  peculiar 
value  and  significance  that  disturbed  and  smote  me,  for  the 
incident  had  revealed  a  love  unchanged  and  unchangeable. 
Had  she  taken  my  gift  as  a  sign  that  my  indifference  was 
melting  ? 

As  I  went  downstairs  and  into  the  library  to  read  the 
financial  page  of  the  morning  newspaper  I  asked  myself, 
with  a  certain  disquiet,  whether,  in  the  formal,  complicated, 
and  luxurious  conditions  in  which  we  now  lived  it  might  be 
possible  to  build  up  new  ties  and  common  interests.  I 
reflected  that  this  would  involve  confessions  and  confidences 
on  my  part,  since  there  was  a  whole  side  of  my  life  of  which 


352  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Maude  knew  nothing.  I  had  convinced  myself  long  ago 
that  a  man's  business  career  was  no  affair  of  his  wife's :  I 
had  justified  that  career  to  myself :  yet  I  had  always  had  a 
vague  feeling  that  Maude,  had  she  known  the  details,  would 
not  have  approved  of  it.  Impossible,  indeed,  for  a  woman 
to  grasp  these  problems.  They  were  outside  of  her  expe 
rience. 

Nevertheless,  something  might  be  done  to  improve  our 
relationship,  something  which  would  relieve  me  of  that 
uneasy  lack  of  unity  I  felt  when  at  home,  of  the  lassitude 
and  ennui  I  was  wont  to  feel  creeping  over  me  on  Sundays 
and  holidays.  .  .  . 


XX 


I  FIND  in  relating  those  parts  of  my  experience  that  seem 
to  be  of  most  significance  I  have  neglected  to  tell  of  my 
mother's  death,  which  occurred  the  year  before  we  moved 
to  Grant  Avenue.  She  had  clung  the  rest  of  her  days  to 
the  house  in  which  I  had  been  born.  Of  late  years  she  had 
lived  in  my 'children,  and  Maude's  devotion  to  her  had  been 
unflagging.  Truth  compels  me  to  say  that  she  had  long 
ceased  to  be  a  factor  in  my  life.  I  have  thought  of  her  in 
later  years. 

Coincident  with  the  unexpected  feeling  of  fruitlessness 
that  came  to  me  with  the  Grant  Avenue  house,  of  things 
achieved  but  not  realized  or  appreciated,  was  the  appearance 
of  a  cloud  on  the  business  horizon ;  or  rather  on  the  political 
horizon,  since  it  is  hard  to  separate  the  two  realms.  There 
were  signs,  for  those  who  could  read,  of  a  rising  popular  storm. 
During  the  earliest  years  of  the  new  century  the  political 
atmosphere  had  changed,  the  public  had  shown  a  tendency 
to  grow  restless ;  and  everybody  knows  how  important  it  is 
for  financial  operations,  for  prosperity,  that  the  people  should 
mind  their  own  business.  In  short,  our  commercial-romantic 
pilgrimage  began  to  meet  with  unexpected  resistance.  It  was 
as  though  the  nation  were  entering  into  a  senseless  conspiracy 
to  kill  prosperity. 

In  the  first  place,  in  regard  to  the  Presidency  of  the  United 
States,  a  cog  had  unwittingly  been  slipped.  It  had  always 
been  recognized  —  as  I  have  said  —  by  responsible  financial 
personages  that  the  impulses  of  the  majority  of  Americans 
could  not  be  trusted,  that  these  —  who  had  inherited  illu 
sions  of  freedom  —  must  be  governed  firmly  yet  with  deli- 
2A  353 


354  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

— i 

cacy ;  unknown  to  them,  their  Presidents  must  be  chosen  for 
them,  precisely  as  Mr.  Watling  had  been  chosen  for  the  people 
of  our  state,  and  the  popular  enthusiasm  manufactured  later. 
There  were  informal  meetings  in  New  York,  in  Washington, 
where  candidates  were  discussed ;  not  that  such  and  such  a 
man  was  settled  upon,  —  it  was  a  process  of  elimination. 
Usually  the  affair  had  gone  smoothly.  For  instance,  a 
while  before,  a  benevolent  capitalist  of  the  middle  west,  an 
intimate  of  Adolf  Scherer,  had  become  obsessed  with  the 
idea  that  a  friend  of  his  was  the  safest  and  sanest  man  for 
the  head  of  the  nation,  had  convinced  his  fellow-capitalists 
of  this,  whereupon  he  had  gone  ahead  to  spend  his  energy 
and  his  money  freely  to  secure  the  nomination  and  election 
of  this  gentleman. 

The  Republican  National  Committee,  the  Republican 
National  Convention  were  allowed  to  squabble  to  their 
hearts'  content  as  to  whether  Smith,  Jones  or  Brown  should 
be  nominated,  but  it  was  clearly  understood  that  if  Robin 
son  or  White  were  chosen  there  would  be  no  corporation 
campaign  funds.  This  applied  also  to  the  Democratic  party, 
on  the  rare  occasions  when  it  seemed  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  winning.  Now,  however,  through  an  unpardonable 
blunder,  there  had  got  into  the  White  House  a  President 
who  was  inclined  to  ignore  advice,  who  appealed  over  the 
heads  of  the  "advisers"  to  the  populace;  who  went  about 
tilting  at  the  industrial  structures  we  had  so  painfully 
wrought,  and  in  frequent  blasts  of  presidential  messages 
enunciated  new  and  heretical  doctrines;  who  attacked  the 
railroads,  encouraged  the  brazen  treason  of  labour  unions, 
inspired  an  army  of  "muck-rakers"  to  fill  the  magazines  with 
the  wildest  and  most  violent  of  language.  State  legislatures 
were  emboldened  to  pass  mischievous  and  restrictive  laws, 
and  much  of  my  time  began  to  be  occupied  in  inducing,  by 
various  means,  our  courts  to  declare  these  unconstitutional. 
How  we  sighed  for  a  business  man  or  a  lawyer  in  the  White 
House!  The  country  had  gone  mad,  the  stock-market 
trembled,  the  cry  of  "corporation  control"  resounded  every- 


A,  FAR  COUNTRY  355 

where,  and  everywhere  demagogues  arose  to  inaugurate 
"reform  campaigns,"  in  an  abortive  attempt  to  "clean  up 
politics."  Down  with  the  bosses,  who  were  the  tools  of 
the  corporations ! 

In  our  own  city,  which  we  fondly  believed  to  be  proof 
against  the  prevailing  madness,  a  slight  epidemic  occurred ; 
slight,  yet  momentarily  alarming.  Accidents  will  happen, 
even  in  the  best  regulated  political  organizations,  —  and 
accidents  in  these  days  appeared  to  be  the  rule.  A  certain 
Mr.  Edgar  Greenhalge,  a  middle-aged,  mild-mannered  and 
inoffensive  man  who  had  made  a  moderate  fortune  in  whole 
sale  drugs,  was  elected  to  the  School  Board.  Later  on  some 
of  us  had  reason  to  suspect  that  Perry  Blackwood  —  with 
more  astuteness  than  he  had  been  given  credit  for  —  was 
responsible  for  Mr.  Greenhalge's  candidacy.  At  any  rate, 
he  was  not  a  man  to  oppose,  and  in  his  previous  life  had  given 
no  hint  that  he  might  become  a  trouble  maker.  Nothing 
happened  for  several  months.  But  one  day  on  which  I  had 
occasion  to  interview  Mr.  Jason  on  a  little  matter  of  handing 
over  to  the  Railroad  a  piece  of  land  belonging  to  the  city, 
which  was  known  as  Billings'  Bowl,  he  inferred  that  Mr. 
Greenhalge  might  prove  a  disturber  of  that  profound  peace 
with  which  the  city  administration  had  for  many  years  been 
blessed. 

"Who  the  .hell  is  he?"  was  Mr.  Jason's  question. 

It  appeared  that  Mr.  G.'s  private  Me  had  been  investi 
gated,  with  disappointingly  barren  results;  he  was,  seem 
ingly,  an  anomalistic  being  in  our  Nietzschean  age,  an  un- 
aggressive  man ;  he  had  never  sold  any  drugs  to  the  city ; 
he  was  not  a  church  member;  nor  could  it  be  learned  that 
he  had  ever  wandered  into  those  byways  of  the  town  where 
Mr.  Jason  might  easily  have  got  trace  of  him :  if  he  had  any 
vices,  he  kept  them  locked  up  in  a  safe-deposit  box  that 
could  not  be  "located."  He  was  very  genial,  and  had  a 
way  of  conveying  disturbing  facts  —  when  he  wished  to 
convey  them  —  under  cover  of  the  most  amusing  stories. 
Mr.  Jason  was  not  a  man  to  get  panicky.  Greenhalge  could 


356  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

be  handled  all  right,  only  —  what  was  there  in  it  for  Green- 
halge  ?  —  a  nut  difficult  for  Mr.  Jason  to  crack.  The  two 
other  members  of  the  School  Board  were  solid.  Here  again 
the  wisest  of  men  was  proved  to  err,  for  Mr.  Greenhalge 
turned  out  to  have  powers  of  persuasion ;  he  made  what  in 
religious  terms  would  have  been  called  a  conversion  in  the 
case  of  another  member  of  the  board,  an  hitherto  staunch 
old  reprobate  by  the  name  of  Miiller,  an  ex-saloonkeeper  in 
comfortable  circumstances  to  whom  the  idea  of  public  office 
had  appealed. 

Mr.  Greenhalge,  having  got  wind  of  certain  transactions 
that  interested  him  extremely,  brought  them  in  his  good- 
natured  way  to  the  knowledge  of  Mr.  Gregory,  the  district 
attorney,  suggesting  that  he  investigate.  Mr.  Gregory 
smiled;  undertook,  as  delicately  as  possible,  to  convey  to 
Mr.  Greenhalge  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  of  the  political 
world  in  particular,  wherein,  it  seemed,  everyone  was  a 
good  fellow.  Mr.  Greenhalge  was  evidently  a  good  fellow, 
and  didn't  want  to  make  trouble  over  little  things.  No, 
Mr.  Greenhalge  didn't  want  to  make  trouble;  he  appre 
ciated  a  comfortable  life  as  much  as  Mr.  Gregory ;  he  told 
the  district  attorney  a  funny  story  which  might  or  might 
not  have  had  an  application  to  the  affair,  and  took  his 
leave  with  the  remark  that  he  had  been  happy  to  make 
Mr.  Gregory's  acquaintance.  On  his  departure  the  district 
attorney's  countenance  changed.  He  severely  rebuked  a 
subordinate  for  some  trivial  mistake,  and  walked  as  rapidly 
as  he  could  carry  his  considerable  weight  to  Monahan's 
saloon.  .  .  .  One  of  the  things  Mr.  Gregory  had  pointed 
out  incidentally  was  that  Mr.  Greenhalge's  evidence  was 
vague,  and  that  a  grand  jury  wanted  facts,  which  might  be 
difficult  to  obtain.  Mr.  Greenhalge,  thinking  over  the  sug 
gestion,  sent  for  Krebs.  In  the  course  of  a  nionth  or  two 
the  investigation  was  accomplished,  Greenhalge  went  back 
to  Gregory,  who  repeated  his  homilies,  whereupon  he  was 
handed  a  hundred  or  so  typewritten  pages  of  evidence. 

It  was  a  dramatic  moment. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  357 

Mr.  Gregory  resorted  to  pleading.  He  was  sure  that  Mr. 
Greenhalge  didn't  want  to  be  disagreeable,  it  was  true  and 
unfortunate  that  such  things  were  so,  but  they  would  be 
amended :  he  promised  all  his  influence  to  amend  them. 
The  public  conscience,  said  Mr.  Gregory,  was  being  aroused. 
Now  how  much  better  for  the  party,  for  the  reputation, 
the  fair  name  of  the  city  if  these  things  could  be  corrected 
quietly,  and  nobody  indicted  or  tried !  Between  sensible 
and  humane  men,  wasn't  that  the  obvious  way  ?  After  the 
election,  suit  could  be  brought  to  recover  the  money.  But 
Mr.  Greenhalge  appeared  to  be  one  of  those  hopeless  indi 
viduals  without  a  spark  of  party  loyalty;  he  merely  con 
tinued  to  smile,  and  to  suggest  that  the  district  attorney 
prosecute.  Mr.  Gregory  temporized,  and  presently  left 
the  city  on  a  vacation.  A  day  or  two  after  his  second  visit 
to  the  district  attorney's  office  Mr.  Greenhalge  had  a  call 
from  the  city  auditor  and  the  purchasing  agent,  who  talked 
about  their  families,  —  which  was  very  painful.  It  was 
also  intimated  to  Mr.  Greenhalge  by  others  who  accosted 
him  that  he  was  just  the  man  for  mayor.  He  smiled,  and 
modestly  belittled  his  qualifications.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  one  fine  morning,  a  part  of  the  evidence  Krebs 
had  gathered  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  Mail  and 
State,  a  new  and  enterprising  newspaper  for  which  the  growth 
and  prosperity  of  our  city  were  responsible;  the  sort  of 
"revelations"  that  stirred  to  amazement  and  wrath  inno 
cent  citizens  of  nearly  every  city  in  our  country:  politics 
and  "graft"  infesting  our  entire  educational  system,  teachers 
and  janitors  levied  upon,  prices  that  took  the  breath  away 
paid  to  favoured  firms  for  supplies,  specifications  so  worded 
that  reasonable  bids  were  barred.  The  respectable  firm  of 
Ellery  and  Knowles  was  involved.  In  spite  of  our  horror, 
we  were  Americans  and  saw  the  humour  of  the  situation, 
and  laughed  at  the  caricature  in  the  Mail  and  State  repre 
senting  a  scholar  holding  up  a  pencil  and  a  legend  under  it, 
"No,  it's  not  gold,  but  it  ought  to  be." 

Here  I  must  enter  into  a  little  secret  history.    Any  affair 


358  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

that  threatened  the  integrity  of  Mr.  Jason's  organization 
was  of  serious  moment  to  the  gentlemen  of  the  financial 
world  who  found  that  organization  invaluable  and  who 
were  also  concerned  about  the  fair  name  of  their  community ; 
a  conference  in  the  Boyne  Club  decided  that  the  city  officials 
were  being  persecuted,  and  entitled  therefore  to  "the  very 
best  of  counsel,"  —  in  this  instance,  Mr.  Hugh  Paret. 
It  was  also  thought  wise  by  Mr.  Dickinson,  Mr.  Gorse,  and 
Mr.  Grierson,  and  by  Mr.  Paret  himself  that  he  should  not 
appear  in  the  matter;  an  aspiring  young  attorney,  Mr. 
Arbuthnot,  was  retained  to  conduct  the  case  in  public. 
Thus  capital  came  to  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Jason,  a  fund  was 
raised,  and  I  was  given  carte  blanche  to  defend  the  miser 
able  city  auditor  and  purchasing  agent,  both  of  whom 
elicited  my  sympathy ;  for  they  were  stout  men,  and  rapidly 
losing  weight.  Our  first  care  was  to  create  a  delay  in  the 
trial  of  the  case  in  order  to  give  the  public  excitement  a 
chance  to  die  down.  For  the  public  is  proverbially  unable 
to  fix  its  attention  for  long  on  one  object,  continually  de 
manding  the  distraction  that  our  newspapers  make  it 
their  business  to  supply.  Fortunately,  a  murder  was 
committed  in  one  of  our  suburbs,  creating  a  mystery  that 
filled  the  "extras"  for  some  weeks,  and  this  was  oppor 
tunely  followed  by  the  embezzlement  of  a  considerable  sum 
by  the  cashier  of  one  of  our  state  banks.  Public  interest 
was  divided  between  baseball  and  the  tracking  of  this  crimi 
nal  to  New  Zealand. 

Our  resentment  was  directed,  not  so  much  against  Com 
missioner  Greenhalge  as  against  Krebs.  It  is  curious  how 
keen  is  the  instinct  of  men  like  Grierson,  Dickinson,  Tallant 
and  Scherer  for  the  really  dangerous  opponent.  Who  the 
deuce  was  this  man  Krebs?  Well,  I  could  supply  them 
with  some  information :  they  doubtless  recalled  the  Galligan 
case ;  and  Miller  Gorse,  who  forgot  nothing,  also  remembered 
his  opposition  in  the  legislature  to  House  Bill  709.  He  had 
continued  to  be  the  obscure  legal  champion  of  "oppressed" 
labour,  but  how  he  had  managed  to  keep  body  and  soul 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  359 

together  I  knew  not.  I  had  encountered  him  occasionally 
in  court  corridors  or  on  the  street ;  he  did  not  seem  to  change 
much ;  nor  did  he  appear  in  our  brief  and  perfunctory  con 
versations  to  bear  any  resentment  against  me  for  the  part 
I  had  taken  in  the  Galligan  affair.  I  avoided  him  when 
it  was  possible.  ...  I  had  to  admit  that  he  had  done  a 
remarkably  good  piece  of  work  in  collecting  Greenhalge's 
evidence,  and  how  the  erring  city  officials  were  to  be 
rescued  became  a  matter  of  serious  concern.  Gregory,  the 
district  attorney,  was  in  an  abject  funk;  in  any  case  a 
mediocre  lawyer,  after  the  indictment  he  was  no  help  at 
all.  I  had  to  do  all  the  work,  and  after  we  had  selected  the 
particular  "Railroad"  judge  before  whom  the  case  was  to 
be  tried,  I  talked  it  over  with  him.  His  name  was  Netting, 
he  understood  perfectly  what  was  required  of  him,  and  that 
he  was  for  the  moment  the  chief  bulwark  on  which  depended 
the  logical  interests  of  capital  and  sane  government  for  their 
defence;  also,  his  reelection  was  at  stake.  It  was  indi 
cated  to  newspapers  (such  as  the  Mail  and  State)  showing  a 
desire  to  keep  up  public  interest  in  the  affair  that  their 
advertising  matter  might  decrease;  Mr.  SherrilTs  great 
department  store,  for  instance,  did  not  approve  of  this  sort 
of  agitation.  Certain  stationers,  booksellers  and  other 
business  men  had  got  "cold  feet,"  as  Mr.  Jason  put  it,  the 
prospect  of  bankruptcy  suddenly  looming  ahead  of  them, 

—  since  the  Corn  National  Bank  held  certain  paper.  .  .  . 
In  short,  when  the  case  did  come  to  trial,  it  "blew  up," 

as  one  of  our  ward  leaders  dynamically  expressed  it.  Sev 
eral  important  witnesses  were  mysteriously  lacking,  and  two 
or  three  school-teachers  had  suddenly  decided  to  take  a 
trip  to  Europe.  The  district  attorney  was  ill,  and  assigned 
the  prosecution  to  a  mild  assistant ;  while  a  sceptical  jury 

—  composed   largely  of  gentlemen  who  had  the  business 
interests  of  the  community,  and  of  themselves,  at  heart  — 
returned  a  verdict  of  "not  guilty."    This  was  the  signal 
for    severely    dignified    editorials    in    Mr.    Tallant's    and 
other    conservative    newspapers,    hinting    that    it    might 


360  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

be  well  in  the  future  for  all  well-meaning  but  misguided 
reformers  to  think  twice  before  subjecting  the  city  to  the 
cost  of  such  trials,  and  uselessly  attempting  to  inflame 
public  opinion  and  upset  legitimate  business.  The  Era  ex 
pressed  the  opinion  that  no  city  in  the  United  States  was 
"  more'Jefficiently  and  economically  governed  than  our  own." 
" Irregularities"  might  well  occur  in  every  large  organiza 
tion;  and  it  would  better  have  become  Mr.  Greenhalge  if, 
instead  of  hiring  an  unknown  lawyer  thirsting  for  notoriety 
to  cook  up  charges,  he  had  called  the  attention  of  the  proper 
officials  to  the  matter,  etc.,  etc.  The  Pilot  alone,  which 
relied  on  sensation  for  its  circulation,  kept  hammering 
away  for  a  time  with  veiled  accusations.  But  our  citizens 
had  become  weary.  .  .  . 

As  a  topic,  however,  this  effective  suppression  of  reform 
was  referred  to  with  some  delicacy  by  my  friends  and  my 
self.  Our  interference  had  been  necessary  and  therefore 
justified,  but  we  were  not  particularly  proud  of  it,  and  our 
triumph  had  a  temporarily  sobering  effect.  It  was  about 
this  time,  if  I  remember  correctly,  that  Mr.  Dickinson  gave 
the  beautiful  stained-glass  window  to  the  church.  .  .  . 

Months  passed.  One  day,  having  occasion  to  go  over  to 
the  Boyne  Iron  Works  to  get  information  at  first  hand  from 
certain  officials,  and  having  finished  my  business,  I  boarded 
a  South  Side  electric  car  standing  at  the  terminal.  Just 
before  it  started  Krebs  came  down  the  aisle  of  the  car  and 
took  the  seat  in  front  of  me. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "how  are  you?"  He  turned  in  surprise, 
and  thrust  his  big,  bony  hand  across  the  back  of  the  seat. 
"Come  and  sit  here."  He  came.  "Do  you  ever  get  back 
to  Cambridge  in  these  days?"  I  asked  cordially. 

"Not  since  I  graduated  from  newspaper  work  in  Boston. 
That's  a  good  many  years  ago.  By  the  way,  our  old  land 
lady  died  this  year." 

"Do  you  mean — ?"  "Granite  Face,"  I  was  about  to 
say.  I  had  forgotten  her  name,  but  that  homesick  scene 
when  Tom  and  I  stood  before  our  open  trunks,  when  Krebs 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  361     , 

had  paid  us  a  visit,  came  back  to  me.     "You've  kept  in 
touch  with  her?"  I  asked,  in  surprise. 

"Well,"  said  Krebs,  "she  was  one  of  the  few  friends  I  had 
at  Cambridge.  I  had  a  letter  from  the  daughter  last  week. 
She's  done  very  well,  and  is  an  instructor  in  biology  in  one 
of  the  western  universities." 

I  was  silent  a  moment. 

"And  you,  —  you  never  married,  did  you?"  I  inquired,  * 
somewhat  irrelevantly. 

His  semi-humorous  gesture  seemed  to  deny  that  such  a 
luxury  was  for  him.  The  conversation  dragged  a  little; 
I  began  to  feel  the  curiosity  he  invariably  inspired.  What 
was  his  life?  What  were  his  beliefs?  And  I  was  pos 
sessed  by  a  certain  militancy,  a  desire  to  "  smoke  him  out." 
I  did  not  stop  to  reflect  that  mine  was  in  reality  a  defen 
sive  rather  than  an  aggressive  attitude. 
&  "Do  you  live  down  here,  in  this  part  of  the  city?"  I 
asked. 

No,  he  boarded  in  Fowler  Street.  I  knew  it  as  in  a  dis 
trict  given  over  to  the  small  houses  of  working-men. 

"I  suppose  you  are  still  a  socialist." 

"I  suppose  I  am,"  he  admitted,  and  added,  "at  any  rate, 
that  is  as  near  as  you  can  get  to  it." 

"Isn't  it  fairly  definite?" 

"Fairly,  if  my  notions  are  taken  in  general  as  the  antith 
esis  of  what  you  fellows  believe." 

"The  abolition  of  property,  for  instance." 

"  The  abolition  of  too  much  property." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'too  much' ?" 

"When  it  ceases  to  be  real  to  a  man,  when  it  represents 
more  than  his  need,  when  it  drives  him  and  he  becomes  a 
slave  to  it." 

Involuntarily  I  thought  of  my  new  house,  —  not  a  soothing 
reflection. 

"But  who  is  going  to  decree  how  much  property  a  man 
should  have?" 

"Nobody  —  everybody.    That    will    gradually    tend    to 


362  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

work  itself  out  as  we  become  more  sensible  and-  better 
educated,  and  understand  more  clearly  what  is  good  for 
us." 

I  retorted  with  the  stock,  common-sense  phrase. 

"  If  we  had  a  division  to-morrow,  within  a  few  years  or  so 
the  most  efficient  would  contrive  to  get  the  bulk  of  it  back 
in  their  hands." 

"That's  so,"  he  admitted.  "But  we're  not  going  to  have 
a  division  to-morrow." 

"Thank  God  !"  I  exclaimed. 

He  regarded  me. 

"The  'efficient'  will  have  to  die  or  be  educated  first. 
That  will  take  time." 

"Educated!" 

"Paret,  have  you  ever  read  any  serious  books  on  what 
you  call  socialism?"  he  asked. 

I  threw  out  an  impatient  negative.  I  was  going  on  to 
protest  that  I  was  not  ignorant  of  the  doctrine. 

"Oh,  what  you  call  socialism  is  merely  what  you  believe 
to  be  the  more  or  less  crude  and  Utopian  propaganda  of  an 
obscure  political  party.  That  isn't  socialism.  Nor  is  the 
anomalistic  attempt  that  the  Christian  Socialists  make 
to  unite  modern  socialistic  philosophy  with  Christian  ortho 
doxy,  socialism." 

"What  is  socialism,  then?"  I  demanded,  somewhat  de 
fiantly. 

"Let's  call  it  education,  science,"  he  said  smilingly,  "eco 
nomics  and  government  based  on  human  needs  and  a  rational 
view  of  religion.  It  has  been  taught  in  German  universities, 
and  it  will  be  taught  in  ours  whenever  we  shall  succeed  in 
inducing  your  friends,  by  one  means  or  another,  not  to  con 
tinue  endowing  them.  Socialism,  in  the  proper  sense,  is 
merely  the  application  of  modern  science  to  government." 

I  was  puzzled  and  angry.  What  he  said  made  sense 
somehow,  but  it  sounded  to  me  like  so  much  gibberish. 

"But  Germany  is  a  monarchy,"  I  objected. 

"It  is  a  modern,  scientific  system  with  monarchy  as  its 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  363 

superstructure.  It  is  anomalous,  but  frank.  The  mon 
archy  is  there  for  all  men  to  see,  and  some  day  it  will  be  done 
away  with.  We  are  supposedly  a  democracy,  and  our  super 
structure  is  plutocratic.  Our  people  feel  the  burden,  but  they 
have  not  yet  discovered  what  the  burden  is." 

"And  when  they  do?"  I  asked,  a  little  defiantly. 

"When  they  do,"  replied  Krebs,  "they  will  set  about 
making  the  plutocrats  happy.  Now  plutocrats  are  discon 
tented,  and  never  satisfied ;  the  more  they  get,  the  more  they 
want,  the  more  they  are  troubled  by  what  other  people 
have." 

I  smiled  in  spite  of  myself. 

"Your  interest  in  —  in  plutocrats  is  charitable,  then?" 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said,  "my  interest  in  all  kinds  of  people 
is  charitable.  However  improbable  it  may  seem,  I  have 
no  reason  to  dislike  or  envy  people  who  have  more  than 
they  know  what  to  do  with."  And  the  worst  of  it  was  he 
looked  it.  He  managed  somehow  simply  by  sitting  there 
with  his  strange  eyes  fixed  upon  me  —  in  spite  of  his  ridic 
ulous  philosophy  —  to  belittle  my  ambitions,  to  make 
of  small  worth  my  achievements,  to  bring  home  to  me  the 
fact  that  in  spite  of  these  I  was  neither  contented  nor  happy  : 
though  he  kept  his  humour  and  his  poise,  he  implied  an 
experience  that  was  far  deeper,  more  tragic  and  more  signifi 
cant  than  mine.  I  was  goaded  into  making  an  injudicious 
remark. 

"Well,  your  campaign  against  Ennerly  and  Jackson  fell 
through,  didn't  it  ? "  Ennerly  and  Jackson  were  the  city 
officials  who  had  been  tried. 

"It  wasn't  a  campaign  against  them,"  he  answered. 
"And  considering  the  subordinate  part  I  took  in  it,  it  could 
scarcely  be  called  mine." 

"  Greenhalge  turned  to  you  to  get  the  evidence." 

"Well,  I  got  it,"  he  said. 

"What  became  of  it?" 

"You  ought  to  know." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 


364  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Just  what  I  say,  Paret,"  he  answered  slowly.  "You 
ought  to  know,  if  anyone  knows." 

I  considered  this  a  moment,  more  soberly.  I  thought  I 
might  have  counted  on  my  fingers  the  number  of  men  cogni 
zant  of  my  connection  with  the  case.  I  decided  that  he  was 
guessing.  "  , 

"I  think  you  should  explain  that/'  I  told  him. 

"  The  time  may  come,  when  you'll  have  to  explain  it." 

"Is  that  a  threat?"  I  demanded. 

u  A  threat  ?  "  he  repeated.     "  Not  at  all." 

"But  you  are  accusing  me  — " 

"Of  what?"  he  interrupted  suddenly. 

He  had  made  it  necessary  for  me  to  define  the  nature  of 
his  charges. 

"Of  having  had  some  connection  with  the  affair  in  ques 
tion." 

"Whatever  else  I  may  be,  I'm  not  a  fool,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  Neither  the  district  attorney's  office,  nor  young  Arbuthnot 
had  brains  enough  to  get  them  out  of  that  scrape.  Jason 
didn't  have  influence  enough  with  the  judiciary,  and,  as 
I  happen  to  know,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  money  spent." 

"You  may  be  called  upon  to  prove  it,"  I  retorted,  rather 
hotly. 

"So  I  may." 

His  tone,  far  from  being  defiant,  had  in  it  a  note  of  sad 
ness.  I  looked  at  him.  What  were  his  potentialities? 
Was  it  not  just  possible  that  I  should  have  to  revise  my  idea 
of  him,  acknowledge  that  he  might  become  more  formidable 
than  I  had  thought  ? 

There  was  an  awkward  silence. 

"You  mustn't  imagine,  Paret,  that  I  have  any  personal 
animus  against  you,  or  against  any  of  the  men  with  whom 
you're  associated,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment.  "I'm  sorry 
you're  on  that  side,  that's  all,  —  I  told  you  so  once  before. 
I'm  not  calling  you  names,  I'm  not  talking  about  morality 
and  immorality.  Immorality,  when  you  come  down  to  it, 
is  often  just  the  opposition  to  progress  that  comes  from  blind- 


.A  FAR  COUNTRY;  SGS 

ness.  I  don't  make  the  mistake  of  blaming  a  few  individuals 
for  the  evils  of  modern  industrial  society,  and  on  the  other 
hand  you  mustn't  blame  individuals  for  the  discomforts  of 
what  you  call  the  reform  movement,  for  that  movement  is 
merely  a  symptom  —  a  symptom  of  a  disease  due  to  a  change 
in  the  structure  of  society.  We'll  never  have  any  happiness 
or  real  prosperity  until  we  cure  that  disease.  I  was  inclined 
to  blame  you  once,  at  the  capital  that  time,  because  it  seemed 
to  me  that  a  man  with  all  the  advantages  you  have  had  and 
a  mind  like  yours  didn't  have  much  excuse.  But  I've 
thought  about  it  since ;  I  realize  now  that  I've  had  a  good 
many  more  'advantages'  than  you,  and  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  don't  see  how  you  could  have  come  out  anywhere  else 
than  where  you  are,  —  all  your  surroundings  and  training 
were  against  it.  That  doesn't  mean  that  you  won't  grasp 
the  situation  some  day  —  I  have  an  idea  you  will.  It's 
just  an  idea.  The  man  who  ought  to  be  condemned  isn't 
the  man  that  doesn't  understand  what's  going  on,  but  the 
man  who  comes  to  understand  and  persists  in  opposing  it." 
He  rose  and  looked  down  at  me  with  the  queer,  disturbing 
smile  I  remembered.  "I  get  off  at  this  corner,"  he  added, 
rather  diffidently.  "I  hope  you'll  forgive  me  for  being 
personal.  I  didn't  mean  to  be,  but  you  rather  forced  it 
on  me." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  I  replied.  The  car  stopped,  and 
he  hurried  off.  I  watched  his  tall  figure  as  it  disappeared 
among  the  crowd  on  the  sidewalk.  .  .  . 


I  returned  to  my  office  in  one  of  those  moods  that  are  the 
more  disagreeable  because  conflicting.  To-day  in  partic 
ular  I  had  been  aroused  by  what  Tom  used  to  call  Krebs's 
"crust,"  and  as  I  sat  at  my  desk  warm  waves  of  resentment 
went  through  me  at  the  very  notion  of  his  telling  me  that 
my  view  was  limited  and  that  therefore  my  professional 
conduct  was  to  be  forgiven!  It  was  he,  the  fanatic,  who 


366  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

saw  things  in  the  larger  scale!  an  assumption  the  more 
exasperating  because  at  the  moment  he  made  it  he  almost 
convinced  me  that  he  did,  and  I  was  unable  to  achieve  for 
him  the  measure  of  contempt  I  desired,  for  the  incident, 
the  measure  of  ridicule  it  deserved.  My  real  animus  was  due 
to  the  fact  that  he  had  managed  to  shake  my  self-confidence, 
to  take  the  flavour  out  of  my  achievements,  —  a  flavour 
that  was  in  the  course  of  an  hour  to  be  completely  restored 
by  one  of  those  interesting  coincidences  occasionally  occurring 
in  life.  A  young  member  of  my  staff  entered  with  a  tele 
gram  ;  I  tore  it  open,  and  sat  staring  at  it  a  moment  before 
I  realized  that  it  brought  to  me  the  greatest  honour  of  my 
career. 

The  Banker-Personality  in  New  York  had  summoned  me 
for  consultation.  To  be  recognized  by  him  conferred  indeed 
an  ennoblement,  the  Star  and  Garter,  so  to  speak,  of  the 
only  great  realm  in  America,  that  of  high  finance;  and 
the  yellow  piece  of  paper  I  held  in  my  hand  instantly  re- 
magnetized  me,  renewed  my  energy,  and  I  hurried  home  to 
pack  my  bag  in  order  to  catch  the  seven  o'clock  train.  I 
announced  the  news  to  Maude. 

"I  imagine  it's  because  he  knows  I  have  made  something 
of  a  study  of  the  coal  roads  situation,"  I  added. 

"I'm  glad,  Hugh,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  it's  a  great 
compliment." 

Never  had  her  inadequacy  to  appreciate  my  career  been 
more  apparent!  I  looked  at  her  curiously,  to  realize  once 
more  with  peculiar  sharpness  how  far  we  were  apart;  but 
now  the  resolutions  I  had  made  —  and  never  carried  out  — 
on  that  first  Christmas  in  the  new  home  were  lacking.  In 
deed,  it  was  the  futility  of  such  resolutions  that  struck  me 
at  this  moment.  If  her  manner  had  been  merely  one  of 
indifference,  it  would  in  a  way  have  been  easier  to  bear ; 
she  was  simply  incapable  of  grasping  the  significance  of  the 
event,  the  meaning  to  me  of  the  years  of  unceasing,  am 
bitious  effort  it  crowned. 

"Yes,  it  is  something  of  a  recognition,"  I  replied.     "Is 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  367 

there  anything  I  can  get  for  you  in  New  York?  I  don't 
know  how  long  I  shall  have  to  stay  —  I'll  telegraph  you 
when  I'm  getting  back."  I  kissed  her  and  hurried  out  to 
the  automobile.  As  I  drove  off  I  saw  her  still  standing  in 
the  doorway  looking  after  me.  ...  In  the  station  I  had 
a  few  minutes  to  telephone  Nancy. 

"  If  you  don't  see  me  for  a  few  days  it's  because  I've  gone 
to  New  York/'  I  informed  her. 

"Something  important,  I'm  sure." 

"How  did  you  guess?"  I  demanded,  and  heard  her  laugh. 

"Come  back  soon  and  tell  me  about  it,"  she  said,  and  I 
walked,  exhilarated,  to  the  train.  ...  As  I  sped  through 
the  night,  staring  out  of  the  window  into  the  darkness,  I 
reflected  on  the  man  I  was  going  to  see.  But  at  that  time, 
although  he  represented  to  me  the  quintessence  of  achieve 
ment  and  power,  I  did  not  by  any  means  grasp  the  many- 
sided  significance  of  the  phenomenon  he  presented,  though  I 
was  keenly  aware  of  his  influence,  and  that  men  spoke  of 
him  with  bated  breath.  Presidents  came  and  went,  kings 
and  emperors  had  responsibilities  and  were  subject  daily 
to  annoyances,  but  this  man  was  a  law  unto  himself.  He 
did  exactly  what  he  chose,  and  compelled  other  men  to  do  it. 
Wherever  commerce  reigned,  —  and  where  did  it  not?  — he 
was  king  and  head  of  its  Holy  Empire,  Pope  and  Emperor 
at  once.  For  he  had  his  code  of  ethics,  his  religion,  and 
those  who  rebelled,  who  failed  to  conform,  he  excommuni 
cated  ;  a  code  something  like  the  map  of  Europe,  —  ap 
parently  inconsistent  in  places.  What  I  did  not  then 
comprehend  was  that  he  was  the  American  Principle  per 
sonified,  the  supreme  individual  assertion  of  the  conviction 
that  government  should  remain  modestly  in  the  back 
ground  while  the  efficient  acquired  the  supremacy  that 
was  theirs  by  natural  right;  nor  had  I  grasped  at  that 
time  the  crowning  achievement  of  a  unity  that  fused  Chris 
tianity  with  those  acquisitive  dispositions  said  to  be  inherent 
in  humanity.  In  him  the  Lion  and  the  Lamb,  the  Eagle 
and  the  Dove  dwelt  together  in  amity  and  power. 


368  A  FAR  COUNTRY 


New  York,  always  a  congenial  place  to  gentlemen  of 
vitality  and  means  and  influential  connections,  had  never 
appeared  to  me  more  sparkling,  more  inspiring.  Winter 
had  relented,  spring  had  not  as  yet  begun.  And  as  I  sat  in  a 
corner  of  the  dining-room  of  my  hotel  looking  out  on  the 
sunlit  avenue  I  was  conscious  of  partaking  of  the  vigour  and 
confidence  of  the  well-dressed,  clear-eyed  people  who  walked 
or  drove  past  my  window  with  the  air  of  a  conquering  race. 
What  else  was  there  in  the  world  more  worth  having  than 
this  conquering  sense?  Religion  might  offer  charms  to  the 
weak.  Yet  here  religion  itself  became  sensible,  and  wore  the 
garb  of  prosperity.  The  stonework  of  the  tall  church  on 
the  corner  was  all  lace ;  and  the  very  saints  in  their  niches, 
who  had  known  martyrdom  and  poverty,  seemed  to  have 
renounced  these  as  foolish,  and  to  look  down  complacently  on 
the  procession  of  wealth  and  power.  Across  the  street,  be 
hind  a  sheet  of  glass,  was  a  carrosserie  where  were  displayed 
the  shining  yellow  and  black  panels  of  a  closed  automobile, 
the  cost  of  which  would  have  built  a  farm-house  and  stocked  a 
barn. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  the  appointed  hour,  I  was  in  Wall  Street. 
Sending  in  my  name,  I  was  speedily  ushered  into  a  room 
containing  a  table,  around  which  were  several  men ;  but  my 
eyes  were  drawn  at  once  to  the  figure  of  the  great  banker  who 
sat,  massive  and  preponderant,  at  one  end,  smoking  a  cigar, 
and  listening  in  silence  to  the  conversation  I  had  interrupted. 
He  rose  courteously  and  gave  me  his  hand,  and  a  glance  that 
is  unforgettable. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Paret,"  he  said  simply,  as 
though  his  summons  had  not  been  a  command.  "Perhaps 
you  know  some  of  these  gentlemen." 

One  of  them  was  our  United  States  Senator,  Theodore 
Watling.  He,  as  it  turned  out,  had -been  summoned  from 
Washington.  Of  course  I  saw  him  frequently,  having  from 
time  to  time  to  go  to  Washington  on  various  errands  con- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  369 

nected  with  legislation.  Though  spruce  and  debonnair  as 
ever,  in  the  black  morning  coat  he  invariably  wore,  he 
appeared  older  than  he  had  on  the  day  when  I  had  entered 
his  office.  He  greeted  me  warmly,  as  always. 

"Hugh,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  here,"  he  said,  with  a  slight 
emphasis  on  the  last  word.  My  legal  career  was  reaching 
its  logical  climax,  the  climax  he  had  foreseen.  And  he  added, 
to  the  banker,  that  he  had  brought  me  up. 

"Then  he  was  trained  in  a  good  school,"  remarked  that 
personage,  affably. 

Mr.  Barbour,  the  president  of  our  Railroad,  was  present, 
and  nodded  to  me  kindly;  also  a  president  of  a  smaller  road. 
In  addition,  there  were  two  New  York  attorneys  of  great 
prominence,  whom  I  had  met.  The  banker's  own  special 
lieutenant  of  the  law,  Mr.  Clement  T.  Grolier,  for  whom  I 
looked,  was  absent ;  but  it  was  forthwith  explained  that  he 
was  offering,  that  morning,  a  resolution  of  some  importance 
in  the  Convention  of  his  Church,  but  that  he  would  be  present 
after  lunch. 

"I  have  asked  you  to  come  here,  Mr.  Paret,"  said  the 
banker,  "not  only  because  I  know  something  personally  of 
your  legal  ability,  but  because  I  have  been  told  by  Mr. 
Scherer  and  Mr.  Barbour  that  you  happen  to  have  con 
siderable  knowledge  of  the  situation  we  are  discussing,  as 
well  as  some  experience  with  cases  involving  that  statute 
somewhat  hazy  to  lay  minds,  the  Sherman  anti-trust  law." 

A  smile  went  around  the  table.  Mr.  Watling  winked  at 
me ;  I  nodded,  but  said  nothing.  The  banker  was  not  a  man 
to  listen  to  superfluous  words.  The  keynote  of  his  character 
was  despatch.  .  .  . 

The  subject  of  the  conference,  like  many  questions  bitterly 
debated  and  fought  over  in  their  time,  has  in  the  year  I  write 
these  words  come  to  be  of  merely  academic  interest.  Indeed, 
the  very  situation  we  discussed  that  day  has  been  cited  in 
some  of  our  modern  text-books  as  a  classic  consequence  of 
that  archaic  school  of  economics  to  which  the  name  of  Man 
chester  is  attached.  Some  half  dozen  or  so  of  the  railroads 

2B 


370  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

running  through  the  anthracite  coal  region  had  pooled  their 
interests,  —  an  extremely  profitable  proceeding.  The  public 
paid.  We  deemed  it  quite  logical  that  the  public  should  pay 
—  having  been  created  largely  for  that  purpose ;  and  very 
naturally  we  resented  the  fact  that  the  meddling  Person 
who  had  got  into  the  White  House  without  asking  anybody's 
leave,  —  who  apparently  did  not  believe  in  the  infallibility 
of  our  legal  Bible,  the  Constitution,  —  should  maintain  that 
the  anthracite  roads  had  formed  a  combination  in  restraint 
of  trade,  should  lay  down  the  preposterous  doctrine  —  so 
subversive  of  the  Rights  of  Man  —  that  railroads  should  not 
own  coal  mines.  Congress  had  passed  a  law  to  meet  this 
contention,  suit  had  been  brought,  and  in  the  lower  court 
the  government  had  won. 

As  the  day  wore  on  our  numbers  increased,  we  were  joined 
by  other  lawyers  of  renown,  not  the  least  of  whom  was  Mr. 
Grolier  himself,  fresh  from  his  triumph  over  religious  heresy 
in  his  Church  Convention.  The  note  of  the  conference  be 
came  tinged  with  exasperation,  and  certain  gentlemen  seized 
the  opportunity  to  relieve  their  pent-up  feelings  on  the  sub 
ject  of  the  President  and  his  slavish  advisers,  —  some  of 
whom,  before  they  came  under  the  spell  of  his  sorcery,  had 
once  been  sound  lawyers  and  sensible  men.  With  the  excep 
tion  of  the  great  Banker  himself,  who  made  few  comments, 
Theodore  Watling  was  accorded  the  most  deference;  as 
one  of  the  leaders  of  that  indomitable  group  of  senators  who 
had  dared  to  stand  up  against  popular  clamour,  his  opinions 
were  of  great  value,  and  his  tactical  advice  was  listened  to 
with  respect.  I  felt  more  pride  than  ever  in  my  former  chief, 
who  had  lost  none  of  his  charm.  While  in  no  way  minimizing 
the  seriousness  of  the  situation,  his  wisdom  was  tempered,  as 
always,  with  humour ;  he  managed,  as  it  were,  to  neutralize 
the  acid  injected  into  the  atmosphere  by  other  gentlemen 
present;  he  alone  seemed  to  bear  no  animus  against  the 
Author  of  our  troubles;  suave  and  calm,  good  natured,  he 
sometimes  brought  the  company  into  roars  of  laughter  — 
and  even  succeeded  in  bringing  occasional  smiles  to  the 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  371 

face  of  the  man  who  had  summoned  us —  when  relating 
some  characteristic  story  of  the  queer  genius  whom  the  fates 
(undoubtedly  as  a  practical  joke)  had  made  the  chief  magis 
trate  of  the  United  States  of  America.  All  geniuses  have 
weaknesses ;  Mr.  Watling  had  made  a  study  of  the  President's, 
and  more  than  once  had  lured  him  into  an  impasse.  The 
case  had  been  appealed  to  the  Supreme  Court,  and  Mr. 
Watling,  with  remarkable  conciseness  and  penetration, 
reviewed  the  characteristics  of  each  and  every  member  of 
that  tribunal,  all  of  whom  he  knew  intimately.  They  were, 
of  course,  not  subject  to  "  advice,"  as  were  some  of  the  gentle 
men  who  sat  on  our  state  courts ;  no  sane  and  self-respecting 
American  would  presume  to  "approach"  them.  Neverthe 
less  they  were  human,  and  it  were  wise  to  take  account,  in 
the  conduct  of  the  case,  of  the  probable  bias  of  each  individual. 

The  President,  overstepping  his  constitutional,  Newtonian 
limits,  might  propose  laws,  Congress  might  acquiesce  in 
them,  but  the  Supreme  Court,  after  listening  to  lawyers  like 
Grolier  (and  he  bowed  to  the  attorney),  made  them:  made 
them,  he  might  have  added,  without  responsibility  to  any  man 
in  our  unique  Republic  that  scorned  kings  and  apotheosized 
lawyers.  A  Martian  with  a  sense  of  humour  witnessing  a 
stormy  session  of  Congress  would  have  giggled  at  the  thought 
of  a  few  tranquil  gentlemen  in  another  room  of  the  Capitol 
waiting  to  decide  what  the  people's  representatives  meant  — 
or  whether  they  meant  anything.  .  .  . 

For  the  first  time  since  I  had  known  Theodore  Watling, 
however,  I  saw  him  in  the  shadow  of  another  individual; 
a  man  who,  like  a  powerful  magnet,  continually  drew  our 
glances.  When  we  spoke,  we  almost  invariably  addressed 
him,  his  rare  words  fell  like  bolts  upon  the  consciousness. 
There  was  no  apparent  rift  in  that  personality. 

When,  about  five  o'clock,  the  conference  was  ended  and  we 
were  dismissed,  United  States  Senator,  railroad  presidents, 
field-marshals  of  the  law,  the  great  banker  fell  into  an  eager 
conversation  with  Grolier  over  the  Canon  on  Divorce,  the 
subject  of  warm  debate  in  the  convention  that  day.  Grolier, 


372  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

it  appeared,  had  led  his  party  against  the  theological  liberals. 
He  believed  that  law  was  static,  but  none  knew  better  its 
plasticity ;  that  it  was  infallible,  but  none  so  well  as  he  could 
find  a  text  on  either  side.  His  reputation  was  not  of  the 
popular,  newspaper  sort,  but  was  known  to  connoisseurs, 
editors,  financiers,  statesmen  and  judges,  —  to  those,  in 
short,  whose  business  it  is  to  make  themselves  familiar  with 
the  instruments  of  power.  He  was  the  banker's  chief  legal 
adviser,  the  banker's  rapier  of  tempered  steel,  sheathed  from 
the  vulgar  view  save  when  it  flashed  forth  on  a  swift  errand. 

"I'm  glad  to  be  associated  with  you  in  this  case,  Mr. 
Paret,"  Mr.  Grolier  said  modestly,  as  we  emerged  into  the 
maelstrom  of  Wall  Street.  "If  you  can  make  it  convenient 
to  call  at  my  office  in  the  morning,  we'll  go  over  it  a  little. 
And  I'll  see  you  in  a  day  or  two  in  Washington,  Watling. 
Keep  your  eye  on  the  bull,"  he  added,  with  a  twinkle,  "and 
don't  let  him  break  any  more  china  than  you  can  help.  I 
don't  know  where  we'd  be  if  it  weren't  for  you  fellows." 

By  "you  fellows,"  he  meant  Mr.  Watling's  distinguished 
associates  in  the  Senate.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Watling  and  I  dined  together  at  a  New  York  club.  It 
was  not  a  dinner  of  herbs.  There  was  something  exceedingly 
comfortable  about  that  club,  where  the  art  of  catering  to 
those  who  had  earned  the  right  to  be  catered  to  came  as  near 
perfection  as  human  things  attain.  From  the  great,  heavily 
curtained  dining-room  the  noises  of  the  city  had  been  care 
fully  excluded;  the  dust  of  the  Avenue,  the  squalour  and 
smells  of  the  brown  stone  fronts  and  laddered  tenements  of 
those  gloomy  districts  lying  a  pistol-shot  east  and  west. 
We  had  a  vintage  champagne,  and  afterwards  a  cigar  of 
the  club's  special  importation. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Watling,  "now  that  you're  a  member  of 
the  royal  council,  what  do  you  think  of  the  King?" 

"I've  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  him,"  I  said, — 
and  indeed  it  was  true.  He  had  made,  perhaps,  his  greatest 
impression  when  I  had  shaken  his  hand  in  parting.  The 
manner  in  which  he  had  looked  at  me  then  had  puzzled  me ; 


A  FAR   COUNTRY  373 

It  was  as  though  he  were  seeking  to  divine  something  in 
me  that  had  escaped  him.  "Why  doesn't  the  government 
take  him  over?"  I  exclaimed. 

Mr.  Watling  smiled. 

"You  mean,  instead  of  his  mines  and  railroads  and  other 
properties?" 

"Yes.  But  that's  your  idea.  Don't  you  remember  you 
said  something  of  the  kind  the  night  of  the  election,  years 
ago  ?  It  occurred  to  me  to-day,  when  I  was  looking  at  him." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed  thoughtfully,  "if  some  American  genius 
could  find  a  way  to  legalize  that  power  and  utilize  the  men 
who  created  it  the  worst  of  our  problems  would  be  solved. 
A  man  with  his  ability  has  a  right  to  power,  and  none  would 
respond  more  quickly  or  more  splendidly  to  a  call  of  the 
government  than  he.  All  this  fight  is  waste,  Hugh,  damned 
waste  of  the  nation's  energy."  Mr.  Watling  seldom  swore. 
"Look  at  the  President!  There's  a  man  of  remarkable 
ability,  too.  And  those  two  oughtn't  to  be  fighting  each 
other.  The  President's  right,  in  a  way.  Yes,  he  is,  though 
I've  got  to  oppose  him." 

I  smiled  at  this  from  Theodore  Watling,  though  I  admired 
him  the  more  for  it.  And  suddenly,  oddly,  I  happened  to 
remember  what  Krebs  had  said,  that  our  troubles  were  not 
due  to  individuals,  but  to  a  disease  that  had  developed  in 
industrial  society.  If  the  day  should  come  when  such  men 
as  the  President  and  the  great  banker  would  be  working 
together,  was  it  not  possible,  too,  that  the  idea  of  Mr.  Watling 
and  the  vision  of  Krebs  might  coincide  ?  I  was  struck  by  a 
certain  seeming  similarity  in  their  views ;  but  Mr.  Watling 
interrupted  this  train  of  thought  by  continuing  to  express  his 
own. 

"Well,  —  they're  running  right  into  a  gale  when  they 
might  be  sailing  with  it,"  he  said. 

"You  think  we'll  have  more  trouble?"  I  asked, 

"More  and  more,"  he  replied.  "It'll  be  worse  before  it's 
better,  I'm  afraid."  At  this  moment  a  club  servant  an 
nounced  his  cab,  and  he  rose.  "  Well,  good-bye,  my  son,"  he 


374  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

said.     "I'll  hope  to  see  you  in  Washington  soon.    And  re 
member  there's  no  one  thinks  any  more  of  you  than  I  do." 

I  escorted  him  to  the  door,  and  it  was  with  a  real  pang  I 
saw  him  wave  to  me  from  his  cab  as  he  drove  away.  My 
affection  for  him  was  never  more  alive  than  in  this  hour  when, 
for  the  first  time  in  my  experience,  he  had  given  real  evidence 
of  an  inner  anxiety  and  lack  of  confidence  in  the  future. 


XXI 


IN  spite  of  that  unwonted  note  of  pessimism  from  Mr. 
Watling,  I  went  home  in  a  day  or  two  flushed  with  my  new 
honours,  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  my  aura  of  prestige  was  increased  —  tremen 
dously  increased  —  by  the  recognition  I  had  received. 
A  certain  subtle  deference  in  the  attitude  of  the  small 
minority  who  owed  allegiance  to  the  personage  by  whom 
I  had  been  summoned  was  more  satisfying  than  if  I 
had  been  acclaimed  at  the  station  by  thousands  of  my 
fellow-citizens  who  knew  nothing  of  my  journey  and  of  its 
significance,  even  though  it  might  have  a  concern  for  them. 
To  men  like  Berringer,  Grierson  and  Tallant  and  our  lesser 
great  lights  the  banker  was  a  semi-mythical  figure,  and  many 
tunes  on  the  day  of  my  return  I  was  stopped  on  the  street 
to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  my  friends  as  to  my  impressions. 
Had  he,  for  instance,  let  fall  any  opinions,  prognostications 
on  the  political  and  financial  situation?  Dickinson  and 
Scherer  were  the  only  other  men  in  the  city  who  had  the 
honour  of  a  personal  acquaintance  with  him,  and  Scherer  was 
away,  abroad,  gathering  furniture  and  pictures  for  the  house 
in  New  York  Nancy  had  predicted,  and  which  he  had  al 
ready  begun  to  build  !  With  Dickinson  I  lunched  in  private, 
in  order  to  give  him  a  detailed  account  of  the  conference. 
By  five  o'clock  I  was  ringing  the  door-bell  of  Nancy's  new 
mansion  on  Grant  Avenue.  It  was  several  blocks  below  my 
own. 

"Well,  how  does  it  feel  to  be  sent  for  by  the  great  sultan ? " 
she  asked,  as  I  stood  before  her  fire.  "Of  course  I  have 
always  known  that  ultimately  he  couldn't  get  along  without 
you." 

375 


376  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"  Even  if  he  has  been  a  little  late  in  realizing  it,"  I  retorted. 

"Sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about  him,"  she  commanded. 
"  I  met  him  once,  when  Ham  had  the  yacht  at  Bar  Harbor." 

"And  how  did  he  strike  you?" 

"As  somewhat  wrapped  up  in  himself,"  said  Nancy. 

We  laughed  together. 

"Oh,  I  fell  a  victim,"  she  went  on.  "I  might  have  sailed 
off  with  him,  if  he  had  asked  me." 

"I'm  surprised  he  didn't  ask  you." 

"I  suspect  that  it  was  not  quite  convenient,"  she  said. 
"Women  are  secondary  considerations  to  sultans,  we're  all 
very  well  when  they  haven't  anything  more  serious  to  occupy 
them.  Of  course  that's  why  they  fascinate  us.  What  did 
he  want  with  you,  Hugh?" 

"  He  was  evidently  afraid  that  the  government  would  win 
the  coal  roads  suit  unless  I  was  retained." 

"More  laurels!"  she  sighed.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  be 
proud  to  know  you." 

"That's  exactly  what  I've  been  trying  to  impress  on  you 
all  these  years,"  I  declared.  "I've  laid  the  laurels  at  your 
feet,  in  vain." 

She  sat  with  her  head  back  on  the  cushions,  surveying  me. 

"Your  dress  is  very  becoming,"  I  said  irrelevantly. 

"I  hoped  it  would  meet  your  approval,"  she  mocked. 

"  I've  been  trying  to  identify  the  shade.  It's  elusive  — 
like  you." 

"Don't  be  banal.  .  .  .    What  is  the  colour?" 

"Poinsetta!" 

"Pretty  nearly,"  she  agreed,  critically. 

I  took  the  soft  crepe  between  my  fingers. 

"Poet!"  she  smiled.  "No,  it  isn't  quite  poinsetta.  It's 
nearer  the  red-orange  of  a  tree  I  remember  one  autumn,  in 
the  White  Mountains,  with  the  setting  sun  on  it.  But  that 
wasn't  what  we  were  talking  about.  Laurels!  Your 
laurels." 

"My  laurels,"  I  repeated.  " Such  as  they  are,  I  fling  them 
into  your  lap." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  377 

"Do  you  think  they  increase  your  value  to  me,  Hugh?1" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said  thickly. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  it's  you  I  like  —  not  the  laurels." 

"  But  if  you  care  for  me  —  ?  "  I  began. 

She  lifted  up  her  hands  and  folded  them  behind  the  knot  of 
her  hair. 

"It's  extraordinary  how  little  you  have  changed  since  we 
were  children,  Hugh.  You  are  still  sixteen  years  old,  — 
that's  why  I  like  you.  If  you  got  to  be  the  sultan  of  sultans 
yourself,  I  shouldn't  like  you  any  better,  or  any  worse." 

"And  yet  you  have  just  declared  that  power  appeals  to 
you!" 

"Power  —  yes.  But  a  woman  —  a  woman  like  me  — 
wants  to  be  first,  or  nothing." 

"You  are  first,"  I  asserted.  "You  always  have  been,  if 
you  had  only  realized  it." 

She  gazed  up  at  me  dreamily. 

"If  you  had  only  realized  it!  If  you  had  only  realized 
that  all  I  wanted  of  you  was  to  be  yourself.  It  wasn't  what  you 
achieved.  I  didn't  want  you  to  be  like  Ralph  or  the  others." 

"  Myself  ?    What  are  you  trying  to  say  ?  " 

"Yourself.  Yes,  that  is  what  I  like  about  you.  If  you 
hadn't  been  in  such  a  hurry  —  if  you  hadn't  misjudged  me 
so.  It  was  the  power  in  you,  the  craving,  the  ideal  in  you 
that  I  cared  for  —  not  the  fruits  of  it.  The  fruits  would 
have  come  naturally.  But  you  forced  them,  Hugh,  for 
quicker  results." 
f  "What  kind  of  fruits?"  I  asked. 

"Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  can  I  tell  what  they  might 
have  been!  You  have  striven  and  striven,  you  have  done 
extraordinary  things,  but  have  they  made  you  any  happier  ? 
have  you  got  what  you  want?" 

I  stooped  down  and  seized  her  wrists  from  behind  her  head. 

"I  want  you,  Nancy,"  I  said.  "I  have  always  wanted 
you.  You've  more  wonderful  to-day  than  you  have  ever 
been.  I  could  find  myself  —  with  you." 


378  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

She  closed  her  eyes.  A  dreamy  smile  was  on  her  face, 
and  she  lay  unresisting,  very  still.  In  that  tremendous 
moment,  for  which  it  seemed  I  had  waited  a  lifetime,  I 
could  have  taken  her  in  my  arms  —  and  yet  I  did  not.  I 
could  not  tell  why :  perhaps  it  was  because  she  seemed  to 
have  passed  beyond  me  —  far  beyond  —  in  realization. 
And  she  was  so  still ! 

"We  have  missed  the  way,  Hugh,"  she  whispered,  at  last. 

"But  we  can  find  it  again,  if  we  seek  it  together,"  I  urged. 

"Ah,  if  I  only  could!"  she  said.  "I  could  have  once. 
But  now  I'm  afraid  —  afraid  of  getting  lost."  Slowly  she 
straightened  up,  her  hands  falling  into  her  lap.  I  seized  them 
again,  I  was  on  my  knees  in  front  of  her,  before  the  fire, 
and  she,  intent,  looking  down  at  me,  into  me,  through  me  — 
it  seemed  —  at  something  beyond  which  yet  was  me. 

"Hugh,"  she  asked,  "what  do  you  believe?    Anything?'* 

"What  do  I  believe?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  mean  any  cant,  cut-and-dried  morality. 
The  world  is  getting  beyond  that.  But  have  you,  in  your 
secret  soul,  any  religion  at  all  ?  Do  you  ever  think  about  it  ? 
I'm  not  speaking  about  anything  orthodox,  but  some  religion 
—  even  a  tiny  speck  of  it,  a  germ  —  harmonizing  with  life, 
with  that  power  we  feel  in  us  we  seek  to  express  and  con 
tinually  violate." 

"  Nancy ! "  I  exclaimed. 

"Answer  me  —  answer  me  truthfully,"  she  said.  .  .  . 

I  was  silent,  my  thoughts  whirling  like  dust  atoms  in  a 
storm. 

"You  have  always  taken  things  —  taken  what  you  wanted. 
But  they  haven't  satisfied  you,  convinced  you  that  that  is 
all  of  life." 

"Do  you  mean  —  that  we  should  renounce?"  I  faltered. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  mean.  I  am  askmg,  Hugh,  — 
asking.  Haven't  you  any  clew?  Isn't  there  any  voice  in 
you,  anywhere,  deep  down,  that  can  tell  me?  give  me  a 
hint?  just  a  little  one?  " 

I  was  wracked.    My  passion  had  not  left  me,  it  seemed 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  c.  379 

to  be  heightened,  and  I  pressed  her  hands  against  her  knees. 
It  was  incredible  that  my  hands  should  be  there,  in  hers> 
feeling  her.  Her  beauty  seemed  as  fresh,  as  unwasted  as 
the  day,  long  since,  when  I  despaired  of  her.  And  yet  — 
and  yet  against  the  tumult  and  beating  of  this  passion 
striving  to  throb  down  thought,  thought  strove.  Though  I 
saw  her  as  a  woman,  my  senses  and  my  spirit  commingled 
and  swooned  together. 

"  This  is  life,"  I  murmured,  scarcely  knowing  what  I  said. 

"Oh,  my  dear !"  she  cried,  and  her  voice  pierced  me  witK 
pain,  "  are  we  to  be  lost,  overpowered,  engulfed,  swept  dojwn 
its  stream,  to  come  up  below  drifting  —  wreckage  ?  Where, 
then,  would  be  your  power?  I'm  not  speaking  of  myself. 
Isn't  life  more  than  that  ?  Isn't  it  in  us,  too,  —  in  you  ? 
Think,  Hugh.  Is  there  no  god,  anywhere,  hut  this  force 
we  feel,  restlessly  creating  only  to  destroy?  You  must  an 
swer  —  you  must  find  out." 

I  cannot  describe  the  pleading  passirbn  in  her  voice,  as 
though  hell  and  heaven  were  wrestling  in  it.  The  woman  I 
saw,  tortured  yet  uplifted,  did  not  s<jem  to  be  Nancy,  yet  it 
was  the  woman  I  loved  more  than  life  itself  and  always  had 
loved. 

"I  can't  think,"  I  answered  desperately,  "I  can  only  feel 
—  and  I  can't  express  what  I  feel.  It's  mixed,  it's  dim, 
and  yet  bright  and  shining  -,—  it's  you." 

"No,  it's  you,"  she  said  vehemently.  "You  must  inter 
pret  it."  Her  voice  sanfc.  "Could  it  be  God?"  she  asked. 

"God!"  I  exclaimed ,  sharply. 

Her  hands  fell  awa«y  from  mine.  .  .  .  The  silence  was 
broken  only  by  the  cnackling  of  the  wood  fire  as  a  log  turned 
over  and  fell.  Nev<3r  before,  in  all  our  intercourse  that  I 
could  remember,  haxi  she  spoken  to  me  about  religion.  .  .  . 
With  that  appareat  snap  in  continuity  incomprehensible  to 
the  masculine  mi  nd  —  her  feminine  mood  had  changed. 
Elements  I  had  never  suspected,  in  Nancy,  awe,  even  a 
hint  of  despair,  entered  into  it,  and  when  my  hand  found  hers 
again,  the  very  quality  of  its  convulsive  pressure  seemed  to 


380  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

have  changed.  I  knew  then  that  it  was  her  soul  I  loved 
most ;  I  had  been  swept  all  unwittingly  to  its  very  altar. 

"I  believe  it  is  God,"  I  said.  But  she  continued  to  gaze 
at  me,  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  questioning. 

"Why  is  it,"  she  demanded,  "that  after  all  these  centuries 
of  certainty  we  should  have  to  start  out  to  find  him  again  ? 
Why  is  it  when  something  happens  like  —  like  this,  that  we 
should  suddenly  be  torn  with  doubts  about  him,  when 
we  have  lived  the  best  part  of  our  lives  without  so  much  as 
•£hinking  of  him  ?  " 

'•'Why  should  you  have  qualms?"  I  said.  "Isn't  this 
enoug'.h  ?  and  doesn't  it  promise  —  all  ?  " 

"I  do^'t  know.  They're  not  qualms  —  in  the  old  sense." 
She  smileo?  down  at  me  a  little  tearfully.  "Hugh,  do  you 
remember  when  we  used  to  go  to  Sunday-school  at  Dr. 
Pound's  church,  and  Mrs.  Ewan  taught  us?  I  really  be 
lieved  something  then  —  that  Moses  brought  down  the  ten 
commandments  of  God  from  the  mountain,  all  written  out 
definitely  for  ever  and  ever.  And  I  used  to  think  of  mar 
riage"  (I  felt  a  sharp  twinge),  "of  marriage  as  something 
sacred  and  inviolable,  —  something  ordained  by  God  him 
self.  It  ought  to  be  so  —  ^oughtn't  it?  That  is  the  ideal." 

"Yes  —  but  aren't  you  confusing  — ?"  I  began. 

"I  am  confusing  and  confused.  I  shouldn't  be  —  I 
shouldn't  care  if  there  weren't  something  in  you,  in  me,  in 
our  —  friendship,  something  I  can't  explain,  something  that 
shines  still  through  the  fog  and  the  smoke  in  which  we  have 
lived  our  lives  —  something  which,  1  think,  we  saw  clearer  as 
children.  We  have  lost  it  in  our  hasty  groping.  Oh,  Hugh, 
I  couldn't  bear  to  think  that  we  should  never  find  it !  that  it 
doesn't  really  exist !  Because  I  seem  to  feel  it.  But  can 
we  find  it  this  way,  my  dear  ?  "  Her  han  d  tightened  on  mine. 

"But  if  the  force  drawing  us  together,  that  has  always 
drawn  us  together,  is  God?"  I  objected. 

"I  asked  you,"  she  said.  "The  time  must  come  when 
you  must  answer,  Hugh.  It  may  be  too  late,  but  you  must 
answer." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  381 

"I  believe  in  taking  life  in  my  own  hands,"  I  said. 

"It  ought  to  be  life,"  said  Nancy.  "It  —  it  might  have 
been  life.  ...  It  is  only  when  a  moment,  a  moment  like 
this  comes  that  the  quality  of  what  we  have  lived  seems  so 
tarnished,  that  the  atmosphere  which  we  ourselves  have 
helped  to  make  is  so  sordid.  When  I  think  of  the  intrigues, 
and  divorces,  the  self-indulgences,  —  when  I  think  of  my  own 
marriage  —  •"  her  voice  caught.  "  How  are  we  going  to  better 
it,  Hugh,  this  way?  Am  I  to  get  that  part  of  you  I  love, 
and  are  you  to  get  what  you  crave  in  me?  Can  we  just 
seize  happiness  ?  Will  it  not  elude  us  just  as  much  as  though 
we  believed  firmly  in  the  ten  commandments?" 

"No,"  I  declared  obstinately. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"What  I'm  afraid  of  is  that  the  world  isn't  made  that 
way  —  for  you  —  for  me.  We're  permitted  to  seize  those 
other  things  because  they're  just  baubles,  we've  both  found 
out  how  worthless  they  are.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  they've 
made  me  a  coward,  Hugh.  It  isn't  that  I  couldn't  do  without 
them,  I've  come  to  depend  on  them  in  another  way.  It's 
because  they  give  me  a  certain  protection,  —  do  you  see  ?  — 
they've  come  to  stand  in  the  place  of  the  real  convictions 
we've  lost.  And  —  well,  we've  taken  the  baubles,  can  we 
reach  out  our  hands  and  take  —  this  ?  Won't  we  be  punished 
for  it,  frightfully  punished?" 

"I  don't  care  if  we  are,"  I  said,  and  surprised  myself. 

"But  I  care.  It's  weak,  it's  cowardly,  but  it's  so.  And 
yet  I  want  to  face  the  situation  —  I'm  trying  to  get  you  ta 
face  it,  to  realize  how  terrible  it  is." 

"I  only  know  that  I  want  you  above  everything  else  in 
the  world  —  I'll  take  care  of  you  — " 

I  seized  her  arms,  I  drew  her  down  to  me. 

"Don't!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  don't!"  and  struggled  to  her 
feet  and  stood  before  me  panting.  "You  must  go  away  now 
—  please,  Hugh.  I  can't  bear  any  more  —  I  want  to  think." 

I  released  her.  She  sank  into  the  chair  and  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands.  . 


382  A  FAR  COUNTRY 


As  may  be  imagined,  the  incident  I  have  just  related  threw 
my  life  into  a  tangle  that  would  have  floored  a  less  per 
sistent  optimist  and  romanticist  than  myself,  yet  I  became 
fairly  accustomed  to  treading  what  the  old  moralists  called 
the  devious  paths  of  sin.  In  my  passion  I  had  not  hesitated 
to  lay  down  the  doctrine  that  the  courageous  and  the  strong 
took  what  they  wanted,  —  a  doctrine  of  which  I  had  been  a 
consistent  disciple  in  the  professional  and  business  realm. 
A  logical  buccaneer,  superman,  "master  of  life"  would 
promptly  have  extended  this  doctrine  to  the  realm  of  sex. 
Nancy  was  the  mate  for  me,  and  Nancy  and  I,  our  develop 
ment,  was  all  that  mattered,  especially  my  develop 
ment.  Let  every  man  and  woman  look  out  for  his  or  her 
development,  and  in  the  end  the  majority  of  people  would 
be  happy.  This  was  going  Adam  Smith  one  better.  When 
it  came  to  putting  that  theory  into  practice,  however,  one 
needed  convictions:  Nancy  had  been  right  when  she  had 
implied  that  convictions  were  precisely  what  we  lacked; 
what  our  world  in  general  lacked.  We  had  desires,  yes: 
convictions,  no.  What  we  wanted  we  got  not  by  defying 
the  world,  but  by  conforming  to  it :  we  were  ready  to  defy 
only  when  our  desires  overcame  the  resistance  of  our  synapses, 
and  even  then  not  until  we  should  have  exhausted  every  legal 
and  conventional  means. 

A  superman  with  a  wife  and  family  he  had  acquired  before 
a  great  passion  has  made  him  a  superman  is  in  rather  a  pre 
dicament,  especially  if  he  be  one  who  has  achieved  such  super- 
humanity  as  he  possesses  not  by  challenging  laws  and  con 
ventions,  but  by  getting  around  them.  My  wife  and  family 
loved  me;  and  paradoxically  I  still  had  affection  for  them, 
or  thought  I  had.  But  the  superman  creed  is,  "  be  yourself, 
realize  yourself,  no  matter  how  cruel  you  may  have  to  be  in 
order  to  do  so."  One  trouble  with  me  was  that  remnants  of 
the  Christian  element  of  pity  still  clung  to  me.  I  would  be 
cruel  if  I  had  to,  but  I  hoped  I  shouldn't  have  to  :  something 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  383 

would  turn  up,  something  in  the  nature  of  an  intervening 
miracle  that  would  make  it  easy  for  me.  Perhaps  Maude 
would  take  the  initiative  and  relieve  me.  .  .  .  Nancy  had 
appealed  for  a  justifying  doctrine,  and  it  was  just  what  I 
didn't  have  and  couldn't  evolve.  In  the  meanwhile  it  was 
quite  in  character  that  I  should  accommodate  myself  to  a 
situation  that  might  well  be  called  anomalous. 

This  "accommodation"  was  not  unaccompanied  by  fever. 
My  longing  to  realize  my  love  for  Nancy  kept  me  in  a  con 
stant  state  of  tension  —  of  "nerves";  for  our  relationship 
had  merely  gone  one  step  farther,  we  had  reached  a  point 
where  we  acknowledged  that  we  loved  each  other,  and  para 
doxically  halted  there ;  Nancy  clung  to  her  demand  for  new 
sanctions  with  a  tenacity  that  amazed  and  puzzled  and  often 
irritated  me.  And  yet,  when  I  look  back  upon  it  all,  I  can 
see  that  some  of  the  difficulty  lay  with  me :  if  she  had  her 
weakness  —  which  she  acknowledged  —  I  had  mine  —  and 
kept  it  to  myself.  It  was  part  of  my  romantic  nature  not 
to  want  to  break  her  down.  Perhaps  I  loved  the  ideal 
better  than  the  woman  herself,  though  that  scarcely  seems 
possible. 

We  saw  each  other  constantly.  And  though  we  had  instinc 
tively  begun  to  be  careful,  I  imagine  there  was  some  talk 
among  our  acquaintances.  It  is  to  be  noted  that  the  gossip 
never  became  riotous,  for  we  had  always  been  friends,  and 
Nancy  had  a  saving  reputation  for  coldness.  It  seemed  in 
credible  that  Maude  had  not  discovered  my  secret,  but  if  she 
knew  of  it,  she  gave  no  sign  of  her  knowledge.  Often,  as  I 
looked  at  her,  I  wished  she  would.  I  can  think  of  no  more 
expressive  sentence  in  regard  to  her  than  the  trite  one  that 
she  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  her  way ;  and  I  found  the  very 
perfection  of  her  wifehood  exasperating.  Our  relationship 
would,  I  thought,  have  been  more  endurable  if  we  had 
quarrelled.  And  yet  we  had  grown  as  far  apart,  in  that  big 
house,  as  though  we  had  been  separated  by  a  continent; 
I  lived  in  my  apartments,  she  in  hers ;  she  consulted  me  about 
dinner  parties  and  invitations ;  for,  since  we  had  moved  to 


384  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Grant  Avenue,  we  entertained  and  went  out  more  than  before. 
It  seemed  as  though  she  were  making  every  effort  consistent 
with  her  integrity  and  self-respect  to  please  me.  Outwardly 
she  conformed  to  the  mould ;  but  I  had  long  been  aware  that 
inwardly  a  person  had  developed.  It  had  not  been  a  spon 
taneous  development,  but  one  in  resistance  to  pressure; 
and  was  probably  all  the  stronger  for  that  reason.  At  times 
her  will  revealed  itself  in  astonishing  and  unexpected  flashes, 
as  when  once  she  announced  that  she  was  going  to  change 
Matthew's  school. 

"He's  old  enough  to  go  to  boarding-school,"  I  said.  "I'll 
look  up  a  place  for  him." 

"I  don't  wish  him  to  go  to  boarding-school  yet,  Hugh," 
she  said  quietly. 

"But  that's  just  what  he  needs,"  I  objected.  "He  ought 
to  have  the  rubbing-up  against  other  boys  that  boarding- 
school  will  give  him.  Matthew  is  timid,  he  should  have 
learned  to  take  care  of  himself.  And  he  will  make  friend 
ships  that  will  help  him  in  a  larger  school." 

"I  don't  intend  to  send  him,"  Maude  said. 

"But  if  I  think  it  wise?" 

"You  ought  to  have  begun  to  consider  such  things  many 
years  ago.  You  have  always  been  too  —  busy  to  think  of 
the  children.  You  have  left  them  to  me.  I  am  doing  the 
best  I  can  with  them." 

"But  a  man  should  have  something  to  say  about  boys. 
He  understands  them." 

"You  should  have  thought  of  that  before." 

"They  haven't  been  old  enough." 

"If  you  had  taken  your  share  of  responsibility  for  them, 
I  would  listen  to  you." 

"Maude!"  I  exclaimed  reproachfully. 

"No,  Hugh,"  she  went  on,  "you  have  been  too  busy  — 
making  money.  You  have  left  them  to  me.  It  is  my  task 
to  see  that  the  money  they  are  to  inherit  doesn't  ruin 
them." 

"You  talk  as  though  it  were  a  great  fortune,"  I  said.  .  .  . 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  385 

But  I  did  not  press  the  matter.  I  had  a  presentiment  that 
to  press  it  might  lead  to  unpleasant  results. 

It  was  this  sense  of  not  being  free,  of  having  gained  every 
thing  but  freedom  that  was  at  tunes  galling  in  the  extreme : 
this  sense  of  living  with  a  woman  for  whom  I  had  long  ceased 
to  care,  a  woman  with  a  baffling  will  concealed  beneath  an 
unruffled  and  serene  exterior.  At  moments  I  looked  at  her 
across  the  table ;  she  did  not  seem  to  have  aged  much : 
her  complexion  was  as  fresh,  apparently,  as  the  day  when  I 
had  first  walked  with  her  in  the  garden  at  Elkington;  her 
hair  the  same  wonderful  colour ;  perhaps  she  had  grown  a  little 
stouter.  There  could  be  no  doubt  about  the  fact  that  her 
chin  was  firmer,  that  certain  lines  had  come  into  her  face 
indicative  of  what  is  called  character.  Beneath  her  pliability 
she  was  now  all  firmness;  the  pliability  had  become  a 
mockery.  It  cannot  be  said  that  I  went  so  far  as  to  hate  her 
for  this,  —  when  it  was  in  my  mind,  —  but  my  feelings  were 
of  a  strong  antipathy.  And  then  again  there  were  rare  mo 
ments  when  I  was  inexplicably  drawn  to  her,  not  by  love 
and  passion;  I  melted  a  little  in  pity,  perhaps,  when 
my  eyes  were  opened  and  I  saw  the  tragedy,  yet  I  am  not 
referring  now  to  such  feelings  as  these.  I  am  speaking  of 
the  times  when  I  beheld  her  as  the  blameless  companion  of 
the  years,  the  mother  of  my  children,  the  woman  I  was  used  to 
and  should  —  by  all  canons  I  had  known  —  have  loved.  .  .  . 

And  there  were  the  children.  Days  and  weeks  passed 
when  I  scarcely  saw  them,  and  then  some  little  incident  would 
happen  to  give  me  an  unexpected  wrench  and  plunge  me  into 
unhappiness.  One  evening  I  came  home  from  a  long  talk 
with  Nancy  that  had  left  us  both  wrought  up,  and  I  had 
entered  the  library  before  I  heard  voices.  Maude  was 
seated  under  the  lamp  at  the  end  of  the  big  room  reading 
from  " Don  Quixote"  ;  Matthew  and  Biddy  were  at  her  feet, 
and  Moreton,  less  attentive,  at  a  little  distance  was  taking 
apart  a  mechanical  toy.  I  would  have  tiptoed  out,  but  Biddy 
caught  sight  of  me. 

"It's  father!"  she  cried,  getting  up  and  flying  to  me. 
2c 


386  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Oh,  father,  do  come  and  listen !  The  story's  so  exciting,  isn't 
it,  Matthew?" 

I  looked  down  into  the  boy's  eyes  shining  with  an  expression 
that  suddenly  pierced  my  heart  with  a  poignant  memory 
of  myself.  Matthew  was  far  away  among  the  mountains 
and  castles  of  Spain. 

"Matthew,"  demanded  his  sister,  "why  did  he  want  to  go 
fighting  with  all  those  people?" 

"Because  he  was  dotty,"  supplied  Moreton,  who  had  an 
interesting  habit  of  picking  up  slang. 

"It  wasn't  at  all,"  cried  Matthew,  indignantly,  interrupt 
ing  Maude's  rebuke  of  his  brother. 

"What  was  it,  then?"  Moreton  demanded. 

"You  wouldn't  understand  if  I  told  you,"  Matthew  was 
retorting,  when  Maude  put  her  hand  on  his  lips. 

"I  think  that's  enough  for  to-night,"  she  said,  as  she  closed 
the  book.  "There  are  lessons  to  do  —  and  father  wants 
to  read  his  newspaper  in  quiet." 

This  brought  a  protest  from  Biddy. 

"Just  a  little  more,  mother !  Can't  we  go  into  the  school 
room?  We  shan't  disturb  father  there." 

"I'll  read  to  them  —  a  few  minutes,"  I  said. 

As  I  took  the  volume  from  her  and  sat  down  Maude  shot 
at  me  a  swift  look  of  surprise.  Even  Matthew  glanced  at 
me  curiously ;  and  in  his  glance  I  had,  as  it  were,  a  sudden 
revelation  of  the  boy's  perplexity  concerning  me.  He  was 
twelve,  rather  tall  for  his  age,  and  the  delicate  modelling  of 
his  face  resembled  my  father's.  He  had  begun  to  think. 
What  did  he  think  of  me  ? 

Biddy  clapped  her  hands,  and  began  to  dance  across  the 
carpet. 

"Father's  going  to  read  to  us,  father's  going  to  read  to  us," 
she  cried,  finally  clambering  up  on  my  knee  and  snuggling 
against  me. 

"Where  is  the  place?"  I  asked. 

But  Maude  had  left  the  room.  She  had  gone  swiftly  and 
silently. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  387 

"I'll  find  it,"  said  Moreton.  .  .  . 

I  began  to  read,  but  I  scarcely  knew  what  I  was  reading, 
my  fingers  tightening  over  Biddy's  little  knee.  .  .  . 

Presently  Miss  Allsop,  the  governess,  came  in.  She  had 
been  sent  by  Maude.  There  was  wistfulness  in  Biddy's 
voice  as  I  kissed  her  good  night. 

"Father,  if  you  would  only  read  oftener!"  she  said,  "I 
like  it  when  you  read  —  better  than  anyone  else."  .  .  . 

Maude  and  I  were  alone  that  night.  As  we  sat  in  the 
library  after  our  somewhat  formal,  perfunctory  dinner,  I 
ventured  to  ask  her  why  she  had  gone  away  when  I  had 
offered  to  read. 

"I  couldn't  bear  it,  Hugh,"  she  answered. 

"Why?"  I  asked,  intending  to  justify  myself. 

She  got  up  abruptly,  and  left  me.  I  did  not  follow  her. 
In  my  heart  I  understood  why.  .  .  . 


Some  years  had  passed  since  Ralph's  prophecy  had  come 
true,  and  Perry  and  the  remaining  Blackwoods  had  been 
"relieved"  of  the  Boyne  Street  line.  The  process  need  not 
be  gone  into  in  detail,  being  the  time-honoured  one  employed 
in  the  Ribblevale  affair  of  "running  down"  the  line,  or  per 
haps  it  would  be  better  to  say  "  showing  it  up."  It  had  not 
justified  its  survival  in  our  efficient  days,  it  had  held  out 
—  thanks  to  Perry  —  with  absurd  and  anachronous  per 
sistence  against  the  inevitable  consolidation.  Mr.  -Tallant's 
newspaper  had  published  many  complaints  of  the  age  and 
scarcity  of  the  cars,  etc. ;  and  alarmed  holders  of  securities,  in 
whose  vaults  they  had  lain  since  tune  immemorial,  began  to 
sell.  ...  I  saw  little  of  Perry  in  those  days,  as  I  have  ex 
plained,  but  one  day  I  met  him  in  the  Hambleton  Building, 
and  he  was  white. 

"Your  friends  are  doing  this,  Hugh,"  he  said. 

"Doing  what?" 

"Undermining  the  reputation  of  a  company  as  sound  as 


388  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

any  in  this  city,  a  company  that's  not  overcapitalized, 
either.  And  we're  giving  better  service  right  now  than  any  of 
your  consolidated  lines."  .  .  . 

He  was  in  no  frame  of  mind  to  argue  with ;  the  conversation 
was  distinctly  unpleasant.  I  don't  remember  what  I  said  — 
something  to  the  effect  that  he  was  excited,  that  his  language 
was  extravagant.  But  after  he  had  walked  off  and  left  me 
I  told  Dickinson  that  he  ought  to  be  given  a  chance,  and  one 
of  our  younger  financiers,  Murphree,  went  to  Perry  and 
pointed  out  that  he  had  nothing  to  gain  by  obstruction; 
if  he  were  only  reasonable,  he  might  come  into  the  new  cor 
poration  on  the  same  terms  with  the  others. 

All  that  Murphree  got  for  his  pains  was  to  be  ordered  out 
of  the  office  by  Perry,  who  declared  that  he  was  being  bribed 
to  desert  the  other  stockholders. 

"He  utterly  failed  to  see  the  point  of  view,"  Murphree 
reported  in  some  astonishment  to  Dickinson. 

"What  else  did  he  say?"  Mr.  Dickinson  asked. 

Murphree  hesitated. 

"Well  — what?"  the  banker  insisted. 

"He  wasn't  quite  himself,"  said  Murphree,  who  was  a 
comparative  newcomer  in  the  city  and  had  a  respect  for  the 
Blackwood  name.  "He  said  that  that  was  the  custom  of 
thieves :  when  they  were  discovered,  they  offered  to  divide. 
...  He  swore  that  he  would  get  justice  in  the  courts." 

Mr.  Dickinson  smiled.  .  .  . 

Thus  Perry,  through  his  obstinacy  and  inability  to  adapt 
himself  to  new  conditions,  had  gradually  lost  both  caste  and 
money.  He  resigned  from  the  Boyne  Club.  I  was  rather 
sorry  for  him.  Tom  naturally  took  the  matter  to  heart,  but 
he  never  spoke  of  it ;  I  found  that  I  was  seeing  less  of  him, 
though  we  continued  to  dine  there  at  intervals,  and  he  still 
came  to  my  house  to  see  the  children.  Maude  continued  to 
see  Lucia.  For  me,  the  situation  would  have  been  more 
awkward  had  I  been  less  occupied,  had  my  relationship 
with  Maude  been  a  closer  one.  Neither  did  she  mention 
Perry  in  those  days.  The  income  that  remained  to  him 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  389 

i 

being  sufficient  for  him  and  his  family  to  live  on  comfortably, 
he  began  to  devote  most  of  his  time  to  various  societies  of  a 
semipublic  nature  until  —  in  the  spring  of  which  I  write  — 
his  activities  suddenly  became  concentrated  in  the  organiza 
tion  of  a  "  Citizens  Union,"  whose  avowed  object  was  to  make 
a<  campaign  against  "graft"  and  political  corruption  the 
following  autumn.  This  announcement  and  the  call  for  a 
mass-meeting  in  Kingdon  Hall  was  received  by  the  news 
papers  with  a  good-natured  ridicule,  and  in  influential 
quarters  it  was  generally  hinted  that  this  was  Mr.  Blackwood's 
method  of  "getting  square"  for  having  been  deprived  of  the 
Boyne  Street  line.  It  was  quite  characteristic  of  Ralph 
Hambleton  that  he  should  go,  out  of  curiosity,  to  the  gather 
ing  at  Kingdon  Hall,  and  drop  into  my  office  the  next  morn 
ing. 

"Well,  Hughie,  they're  after  you,"  he  said  with  a  grin. 

"After  me?    Why  not  include  yourself?" 

He  sat  down  and  stretched  his  long  legs  and  his  long  arms, 
and  smiled  as  he  gaped. 

"Oh,  they'll  never  get  me,"  he  said.  And  I  knew,  as  I 
gazed  at  him,  that  they  never  would. 

"  What  sort  of  things  did  they  say  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Haven't  you  read  the  Pilot  and  the  Mail  and  State  f  " 

"  I  just  glanced  over  them.     Did  they  call  names  ?  " 

"Call  names!  I  should  say  they  did.  They  got  drunk 
on  it,  worked  themselves  up  like  dervishes.  They  didn't 
cuss  you  personally,  —  that'll  come  later,  of  course.  Judd 
Jason  got  the  heaviest  shot,  but  they  said  he  couldn't  exist 
a  minute  if  it  wasn't  for  the  '  respectable '  crowd  —  capi 
talists,  financiers,  millionaires  and  their  legal  tools.  Fact 
is,  they  spoke  a  good  deal  of  truth,  first  and  last,  in  a  fool  kind 
of  way." 

"Truth!"  I  exclaimed  irritatedly. 

Ralph  laughed.     He  was  evidently  enjoying  himself. 

"Is  any  of  it  news  to  you,  Hughie,  old  boy?" 

"It's  an  outrage." 

"I  think  it's  funny,"  said  Ralph.     "We  haven't  had  such 


390  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

a  circus  for  years.  Never  had.  Of  course  I  shouldn't  like 
to  see  you  go  behind  the  bars,  —  not  that.  But  you 
fellows  can't  expect  to  go  on  forever  skimming  off  the  cream 
without  having  somebody  squeal  sometime.  You  ought 
to  be  reasonable." 

"You've  skimmed  as  much  cream  as  anybody  else." 

"  You've  skimmed  the  cream,  Hughie, — you  and  Dickinson 
and  Scherer  and  Grierson  and  the  rest,  —  I've  only  filled 
my  Jug-  Well,  these  fellows  are  going  to  have  a  regular 
roof-raising  campaign,  take  the  lid  off  of  everything,  dump 
out  the  red-light  district  some  of  our  friends  are  so 
fond  of." 

"Dump  it  where?"  I  asked  curiously. 

"Oh,"  answered  Ralph,  "they  didn't  say.  Out  into  the 
country,  anywhere." 

"But  that's  damned  foolishness,"  I  declared. 

"Didn't  say  it  wasn't,"  Ralph  admitted.  "They  talked 
a  lot  of  that,  too,  incidentally.  They're  going  to  close  the 
saloons  and  dance  halls  and  make  this  city  sadder  than 
heaven.  When  they  get  through,  it'll  all  be  over  but  the 
inquest." 

"What  did  Perry  do?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  he  opened  the  meeting,  —  made  a  nice,  precise, 
gentlemanly  speech.  Greenhalge  and  a  few  young  highbrows 
and  a  reformed  crook  named  Harrod  did  most  of  the  hair- 
raising.  They're  going  to  nominate  Greenhalge  for  mayor, 
and  he  told  'em  something  about  that  little  matter  of  the 
school  board,  and  said  he  would  talk  more  later  on.  If 
one  of  the  ablest  lawyers  in  the  city  hadn't  been  hired  by 
the  respectable  crowd  and  a  lot  of  other  queer  work  done,  the 
treasurer  and  purchasing  agent  would  be  doing  tune.  They 
seemed  to  be  interested,  all  right." 

I  turned  over  some  papers  on  my  desk,  just  to  show  Ralph 
that  he  hadn't  succeeded  in  disturbing  me. 

"Who  was  in  the  audience?  anyone  you  ever  heard  of?" 
I  asked. 

"  Sure  thing.    Your  cousin  Robert  Breck,  and  that  son-in- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  391 

law  of  his  —  what's  his  name  ?  And  some  other  representa 
tives  of  our  oldest  families,  —  Alec  Pound.  He's  a  reformer 
now,  you  know.  They  put  him  on  the  resolutions  com 
mittee.  Sam  Ogilvy  was  there,  —  he'd  be  classed  as  re 
spectably  conservative.  And  one  of  the  Ewanses.  I  could 
name  a  few  others,  if  you  pressed  me.  That  brother  of 
Fowndes  who  looks  like  an  up-state  minister.  A  lot  of 
women  —  Miller  Gorse's  sister,  Mrs.  Datchet,  who  never 
approved  of  Miller.  Quite  a  genteel  gathering,  I  give  you 
my  word,  and  all  astonished  and  mad  as  hell  when  the  speak 
ing  was  over.  Mrs.  Datchet  said  she  had  been  living  in  a 
den  of  iniquity  and  vice,  and  didn't  know  it." 

"It  must  have  been  amusing,"  I  said. 

"It  was,"  said  Ralph.  "It'll  be  more  amusing  later  on. 
Oh,  yes,  there  was  another  fellow  who  spoke  I  forgot  to  men 
tion  —  that  queer  Dick  who  was  in  your  class,  Krebs,  — 
got  the  school  board  evidence,  —  looked  as  if  he'd  come  in 
by  freight.  He  wasn't  as  popular  as  the  rest,  but  he's  got 
more  sense  than  all  of  them  put  together." 

"Why  wasn't  he  popular?" 

"  Well,  he  didn't  crack  up  the  American  people,  —  said 
they  deserved  all  they  got,  that  they'd  have  to  learn  to  think 
straight  and  be  straight  before  they  could  expect  a  square 
deal.  The  truth  was,  they  secretly  envied  these  rich  men 
who  were  exploiting  their  city,  and  just  as  long  as  they  envied 
them  they  hadn't  any  right  to  complain  of  them.  He  was 
going  into  this  campaign  to  tell  the  truth,  but  to  tell  all 
sides  of  it,  and  if  they  wanted  reform,  they'd  have  to  reform 
themselves  first.  I  admired  his  nerve,  I  must  say." 

"He  always  had  that,"  I  remarked.  "How  did  they 
take  it?" 

"  Well,  they  didn't  like  it  much,  but  I  think  most  of  them 
had  a  respect  for  him.  I  know  I  did.  He  has  a  whole  lot 
of  assurance,  an  air  of  knowing  what  he's  talking  about,  and 
apparently  he  doesn't  give  a  continental  whether  he's  popular 
or  not.  Besides,  Greenhalge  had  cracked  him  up  to  the  skies 
for  the  work  he'd  done  for  the  school  board." 


392  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"You  talk  as  if  he'd  converted  you,"  I  said. 

Ralph  laughed  as  he  rose  and  stretched  himself. 

"Oh,  I'm  only  the  intelligent  spectator,  you  ought  to 
know  that  by  this  time,  Hughie.  But  I  thought  it  might 
interest  you,  since  you'll  have  to  go  on  the  stump  and  refute 
it  all.  That'll  be  a  nice  job.  So  long." 

And  he  departed.  Of  course  I  knew  that  he  had  been 
baiting  me,  his  scent  for  the  weaknesses  of  his  friends  being 
absolutely  fiendish.  I  was  angry  because  he  had  succeeded, 
—  because  he  knew  he  had  succeeded.  All  the  morning  un 
easiness  possessed  me,  and  I  found  it  difficult  to  concentrate 
on  the  affairs  I  had  in  hand.  I  felt  premonitions,  which  I 
tried  in  vain  to  suppress,  that  the  tide  of  the  philosophy  of 
power  and  might  were  starting  to  ebb :  I  scented  vague 
calamities  ahead,  calamities  I  associated  with  Krebs;  and 
when  I  went  out  to  the  Club  for  lunch  this  sense  of  uneasiness, 
instead  of  being  dissipated,  was  increased.  Dickinson  was 
there,  and  Scherer,  who  had  just  got  back  from  Europe; 
the  talk  fell  on  the  Citizens  Union,  which  Scherer  belittled 
with  an  ah*  of  consequence  and  pompousness  that  struck  me 
disagreeably,  and  with  an  eye  newly  critical  I  detected  in 
him  a  certain  disintegration,  deterioration .  Having  dismissed 
the  reformers,  he  began  to  tell  of  his  experiences  abroad, 
referring  in  one  way  or  another  to  the  people  of  consequence 
who  had  entertained  him. 

"Hugh,"  said  Leonard  Dickinson  to  me  as  we  walked  to 
the  bank  together,  "  Scherer  will  never  be  any  good  any  more. 
Too  much  prosperity.  And  he's  begun  to  have  his  nails 
manicured." 

After  I  had  left  the  bank  president  an  uncanny  fancy  struck 
me  that  in  Adolf  Scherer  I  had  before  me  a  concrete  example 
of  the  effect  of  my  philosophy  on  the  individual.  .  .  . 

Nothing  seemed  to  go  right  that  spring,  and  yet  nothing 
was  absolutely  wrong.  At  times  I  became  irritated,  be 
wildered,  out  of  tune,  and  unable  to  understand  why.  The 
weather  itself  was  uneasy,  tepid,  with  long  spells  of  hot 
wind  and  dust.  I  no  longer  seemed  to  find  refuge  in  my 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  393 

work.  I  was  unhappy  at  home.  After  walking  for  many 
years  in  confidence  and  security  along  what  appeared  to  be 
a  certain  path,  I  had  suddenly  come  out  into  a  vague  country 
in  which  it  was  becoming  more  and  more  difficult  to  recog 
nize  landmarks.  I  did  not  like  to  confess  this ;  and  yet  I 
heard  within  me  occasional  whispers.  Could  it  be  that  I, 
Hugh  Paret,  who  had  always  been  so  positive,  had  made  a 
mess  of  my  life  ?  There  were  moments  when  the  pattern  of 
it  appeared  to  have  fallen  apart,  resolved  itself  into  pieces 
that  refused  to  fit  into  each  other. 

Of  course  my  relationship  with  Nancy  had  something  to 
do  with  this.  . 


One  evening  late  in  the  spring,  after  dinner,  Maude  came 
into  the  library. 

"Are  you  busy,  Hugh?"  she  asked. 

I  put  down  my  newspapers. 

"  Because,"  she  went  on,  as  she  took  a  chair  near  the  table 
where  I  was  writing,  "I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  have  de 
cided  to  go  to  Europe,  and  take  the  children." 

"To  Europe!"  I  exclaimed.  The  significance  of  the  an 
nouncement  failed  at  once  to  register  in  my  brain,  but  I  was 
aware  of  a  shock. 

"Yes." 

"When?"  I  asked. 

"  Right  away.    The  end  of  this  month." 

"For  the  summer?" 

"I  haven't  decided  how  long  I  shall  stay." 

I  stared  at  her  in  bewilderment.  In  contrast  to  the  agita 
tion  I  felt  rising  within  me,  she  was  extraordinarily  calm,  — 
unbelievably  so. 

"  But  where  do  you  intend  to  go  in  Europe  ?  " 

"  I  shall  go  to  London  for  a  month  or  so,  and  after  that  to 
some  quiet  place  in  France,  probably  at  the  sea,  where  the 
children  can  learn  French  and  German.  After  that,  I  have 
no  plans." 


394  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"But  —  you  talk  as  if  you  might  stay  indefinitely." 

"I  haven't  decided,"  she  repeated. 

"  But  why  —  why  are  you  doing  this  ?  " 

I  would  have  recalled  the  words  as  soon  as  I  had  spoken 
them.  There  was  the  slightest  unsteadiness  in  her  voice  as 
she  replied :  — 

"Is  it  necessary  to  go  into  that,  Hugh?  Wouldn't  it  be 
useless  as  well  as  a  little  painful  ?  Surely,  going  to  Europe 
without  one's  husband  is  not  an  unusual  thing  in  these 
days.  Let  it  just  be  understood  that  I  want  to  go,  that 
the  children  have  arrived  at  an  age  when  it  will  do  them 
good." 

I  got  up  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  while 
she  watched  me  with  a  silent  calm  which  was  incomprehen 
sible.  In  vain  I  summoned  my  faculties  to  meet  it. 

I  had  not  thought  her  capable  of  such  initiative. 

"I  can't  see  why  you  want  to  leave  me,"  I  said  at  last, 
though  with  a  full  sense  of  the  inadequacy  of  the  remark, 
and  a  suspicion  of  its  hypocrisy. 

1  "That  isn't  quite  true,"  she  answered.  "In  the  first 
place,  you  don't  need  me.  I  am  not  of  the  slightest  use  in 
your  life,  I  haven't  been  a  factor  in  it  for  years.  You  ought 
never  to  have  married  me,  —  it  was  all  a  terrible  mistake. 
I  began  to  realize  that  after  we  had  been  married  a  few 
months  —  even  when  we  were  on  our  wedding  trip.  But  I 
was  too  inexperienced  —  perhaps  too  weak  to  acknowledge 
it  to  myself.  In  the  last  few  years  I  have  come  to  see  it 
plainly.  I  should  have  been  a  fool  if  I  hadn't.  I  am  not 
your  wife  in  any  real  sense  of  the  word,  I  cannot  hold  you, 
I  cannot  even  interest  you.  It's  a  situation  that  no  woman 
with  self-respect  can  endure." 

"  Aren't  those  rather  modern  sentiments,  for  you,  Maude  ?  " 
I  said. 

She  flushed  a  little,  but  otherwise  retained  her  remarkable 
composure. 

"I  don't  care  whether  they  are  'modern'  or  not,  I  only 
know  that  my  position  has  become  impossible." 


'I  WANT  YOU,  NANCY,"  I  SAID,  "I  HAVE  ALWAYS  WANTED  YOU." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  395 

I  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  stood  facing  the 
carefully  drawn  curtains  of  the  windows ;  fantastically,  they 
seemed  to  represent  the  impasse  to  which  my  mind  had  come. 
Did  she  intend,  ultimately,  to  get  a  divorce?  I  dared  not 
ask  her.  The  word  rang  horribly  in  my  ears,  though  un- 
pronounced ;  and  I  knew  then  that  I  lacked  her  courage,  and 
the  knowledge  was  part  of  my  agony. 

I  turned. 

"  Don't  you  think  you've  overdrawn  things,  Maude  — 
exaggerated  them?  No  marriages  are  perfect.  You've 
let  your  mind  dwell  until  it  has  become  inflamed  on  matters 
which  really  don't  amount  to  much." 

"I  was  never  saner,  Hugh,"  she  replied  instantly.  And 
indeed  I  was  forced  to  confess  that  she  looked  it.  That  new 
Maude  I  had  seen  emerging  of  late  years  seemed  now 
to  have  found  herself;  she  was  no  longer  the  woman  I 
had  married,  —  yielding,  willing  to  overlook,  anxious  to 
please,  living  in  me. 

"  I  don't  influence  you,  or  help  you  in  any  way.  I  never 
have." 

"Oh,  that's  not  true,"  I  protested. 

But  she  cut  me  short,  going  on  inexorably :  — 

"I  am  merely  your  housekeeper,  and  rather  a  poor  one 
at  that,  from  your  point  of  view.  You  ignore  me.  I  am 
not  blaming  you  for  it  —  you  are  made  that  way.  It's  true 
that  you  have  always  supported  me  in  luxury,  —  that  might 
have  been  enough  for  another  woman.  It  isn't  enough  for 
me  —  I,  too,  have  a  life  to  live,  a  soul  to  be  responsible  for. 
It's  not  for  my  sake  so  much  as  for  the  children's  that  I 
don't  want  it  to  be  crushed." 

"Crushed!"  I  repeated. 

"  Yes.  You  are  stifling  it.  I  say  again  that  I'm  not  blam 
ing  you,  Hugh.  You  are  made  differently  from  me.  All 
you  care  for,  really,  is  your  career.  You  may  think  that 
you  care,  at  tunes,  for  —  other  things,  but  it  isn't  so." 

I  took,  involuntarily,  a  deep  breath.  Would  she  mention 
Nancy?  Was  it  in  reality  Nancy  who  had  brought  about 


396  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

this  crisis?  And  did  Maude  suspect  the  closeness  of  that 
relationship  ? 

Suddenly  I  found  myself  begging  her  not  to  go ;  the  more 
astonishing  since,  if  at  any  time  during  the  past  winter  this 
solution  had  presented  itself  to  me  as  a  possibility,  I  should 
eagerly  have  welcomed  it !  But  should  I  ever  have  had  the 
courage  to  propose  a  separation?  I  even  wished  to  delude 
myself  now  into  believing  that  what  she  suggested  was  in 
reality  not  a  separation.  I  preferred  to  think  of  it  as  a  trip. 
...  A  vision  of  freedom  thrilled  me,  and  yet  I  was  wracked 
and  torn.  I  had  an  idea  that  she  was  suffering,  that  the 
ordeal  was  a  terrible  one  for  her ;  and  at  that  moment  there 
crowded  into  my  mind,  melting  me,  incident  after  incident 
of  our  past. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  we  have  got  along  pretty  well  to 
gether,  Maude.  I  have  been  negligent  —  I'll  admit  it.  But 
I  '11  try  to  do  better  in  the  future.  And  —  if  you'll  wait  a 
month  or  so,  I  '11  go  to  Europe  with  you,  and  we'll  have  a 
good  time." 

She  looked  at  me  sadly,  —  pityingly,  I  thought. 

"  No,  Hugh,  I  've  thought  it  all  out.  You  really  don't 
want  me.  You  only  say  this  because  you  are  sorry  for  me,  be 
cause  you  dislike  to  have  your  feelings  wrung.  You  needn't 
be  sorry  for  me,  I  shall  be  much  happier  away  from  you." 

"  Think  it  over,  Maude,"  I  pleaded.  "I  shall  miss  you  — 
and  the  children.  I  haven't  paid  much  attention  to  them, 
either,  but  I  am  fond  of  them,  and  depend  upon  them,  too." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It's  no  use,  Hugh.  I  tell  you  I've  thought  it  all  out. 
You  don't  care  for  the  children,  you  were  never  meant  to 
have  any." 

"Aren't  you  rather  severe  in  your  judgments?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  answered.  "I'm  willing  to  admit 
my  faults,  that  I  am  a  failure  so  far  as  you  are  concerned. 
Your  ideas  of  life  and  mine  are  far  apart." 

"I  suppose,"  I  exclaimed  bitterly,  "that  you  are  referring 
to  my  professional  practices." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  397 

A  note  of  weariness  crept  into  her  voice.  I  might  have 
known  that  she  was  near  the  end  of  her  strength. 

"No,  I  don't  think  it's  that,"  she  said  dispassionately. 
"I  prefer  to  put  it  down,  that  part  of  it,  to  a  fundamental 
difference  of  ideas.  I  do  not  feel  qualified  to  sit  in  judgment 
on  that  part  of  your  life,  although  I'll  admit  that  many  of 
the  things  you  have  done,  in  common  with  the  men  with 
whom  you  are  associated,  have  seemed  to  me  unjust  and 
inconsiderate  of  the  rights  and  feelings  of  others.  You  have 
alienated  some  of  your  best  friends.  If  I  were  to  arraign 
you  at  all,  it  would  be  on  the  score  of  heartlessness.  But 
I  suppose  it  isn't  your  fault,  that  you  haven't  any  heart." 

"That's  unfair,"  I  put  in. 

"I  don't  wish  to  be  unfair,"  she  replied.  "Only,  since 
you  ask  me,  I  have  to  tell  you  that  that  is  the  way  it  seems 
to  me.  I  don't  want  to  introduce  the  question  of  right  and 
wrong  into  this,  Hugh,  I'm  not  capable  of  unravelling  it; 
I  can't  put  myself  into  your  life,  and  see  things  from  your 
point  of  view,  weigh  your  problems  and  difficulties.  In 
the  first  place,  you  won't  let  me.  I  think  I  understand 
you,  partly  —  but  only  partly.  You  have  kept  yourself 
shut  up.  But  why  discuss  it  ?  I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

The  legal  aspect  of  the  matter  occurred  to  me.  What 
right  had  she  to  leave  me?  I  might  refuse  to  support  her. 
Yet  even  as  these  thoughts  came  I  rejected  them ;  I  knew 
that  it  was  not  in  me  to  press  this  point.  And  she  could 
always  take  refuge  with  her  father;  without  the  children, 
of  course.  But  the  very  notion  sickened  me.  I  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  Maude  deprived  of  the  children.  I  had 
seated  myself  again  at  the  table.  I  put  my  hand  to  my 
forehead. 

"Don't  make  it  hard,  Hugh,"  I  heard  her  say,  gently. 
"Believe  me,  it  is  best.  I  know.  There  won't  be  any 
talk  about  it,  —  right  away,  at  any  rate.  People  will  think 
it  natural  that  I  should  wish  to  go  abroad  for  the  summer. 
And  later  —  well,  the  point  of  view  about  such  affairs  has 
changed.  They  are  better  understood." 


398  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

She  had  risen.  She  was  pale,  still  outwardly  composed, 
—  but  I  had  a  strange,  hideous  feeling  that  she  was  weeping 
inwardly. 

"Aren't  you  coming  back  —  ever?"  I  cried. 

She  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "I  don't  know,"  and  left  the 
room  abruptly.  .  .  . 

I  wanted  to  follow  her,  but  something  withheld  me. 
I  got  up  and  walked  around  the  room  in  a  state  of  mind  that 
was  near  to  agony,  taking  one  of  the  neglected  books  out 
of  the  shelves,  glancing  at  its  meaningless  print,  and  replac 
ing  it ;  I  stirred  the  fire,  opened  the  curtains  and  gazed 
out  into  the  street  and  closed  them  again.  I  looked  around 
me,  a  sudden  intensity  of  hatred  seized  me  for  this  big, 
silent,  luxurious  house;  I  recalled  Maude's  presentiment 
about  it.  Then,  thinking  I  might  still  dissuade  her,  I  went 
slowly  up  the  padded  stairway  —  to  find  her  door  locked ; 
and  a  sense  of  the  finality  of  her  decision  came  over  me.  I 
knew  then  that  I  could  not  alter  it  even  were  I  to  go  all  the 
lengths  of  abjectness.  Nor  could  I,  I  knew,  have  brought 
myself  to  have  feigned  a  love  I  did  not  feel. 

What  was  it  I  felt?  I  could  not  define  it.  Amazement, 
for  one  thing,  that  Maude  with  her  traditional,  Christian 
view  of  marriage  should  have  come  to  such  a  decision.  I 
went  to  my  room,  undressed  mechanically  and  got  into 
bed.  .  .  . 

She  gave  no  sign  at  the  breakfast  table  the  next  morning 
of  having  made  the  decision  of  the  greatest  moment  in  our 
lives;  she  conversed  as  usual,  asked  about  the  news,  re 
proved  the  children  for  being  noisy ;  and  when  the  children 
had  left  the  table  there  were  no  tears,  reminiscences,  re 
criminations.  In  spite  of  the  slight  antagonism  and  envy 
of  which  I  was  conscious,  —  that  she  was  thus  superbly  in 
command  of  the  situation,  that  she  had  developed  her 
pinions  and  was  thus  splendidly  able  to  use  them,  —  my 
admiration  for  her  had  never  been  greater.  I  made  an 
effort  to  achieve  the  frame  of  mind  she  suggested:  since 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  399 

she  took  it  so  calmly,  why  should  I  be  tortured  by  the  tragedy 
of  it  ?  Perhaps  she  had  ceased  to  love  me,  after  all !  Per 
haps  she  felt  nothing  but  relief.  At  any  rate,  I  was  grateful 
to  her,  and  I  found  a  certain  consolation,  a  sop  to  my  pride  in 
the  reflection  that  the  initiative  must  have  been  hers  to  take. 
I  could  not  have  deserted  her. 

"When  do  you  think  of  leaving?"  I  asked. 

"Two  weeks  from  Saturday  on  the  Olympic,  if  that  is 
convenient  for  you."  Her  manner  seemed  one  of  friendly 
solicitude.  "You  will  remain  in  the  house  this  summer, 
as  usual,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

It  was  a  sunny,  warm  morning,  and  I  went  downtown  in 
the  motor  almost  blithely.  It  was  the  best  solution  after 
all,  and  I  had  been  a  fool  to  oppose  it.  ...  At  the  office, 
there  was  much  business  awaiting  me ;  yet  once  in  a  while, 
during  the  day,  when  the  tension  relaxed,  the  recollection 
of  what  had  happened  flowed  back  into  my  consciousness. 
Maude  was  going ! 

I  had  telephoned  Nancy,  making  an  appointment  for  the 
afternoon.  Sometimes  —  not  too  frequently  —  we  were  in 
the  habit  of  going  out  into  the  country  in  one  of  her  motors, 
a  sort  of  landaulet,  I  believe,  in  which  we  were  separated 
from  the  chauffeur  by  a  glass  screen.  She  was  waiting  for 
me  when  I  arrived,  at  four;  and  as  soon  as  we  had  shot 
clear  of  the  city,  "Maude  is  going  away,"  I  told  her. 

"Going  away?"  she  repeated,  struck  more  by  the  tone 
of  my  voice  than  by  what  I  had  said. 

"  She  announced  last  night  that  she  was  going  abroad  — 
indefinitely." 

I  had  been  more  than  anxious  to  see  how  Nancy  would 
take  the  news.  A  flush  gradually  deepened  in  her  cheeks. 

"You  mean  —  that  she  is  going  to  leave  you?" 

"  It  looks  that  way.     In  fact,  she  as  much  as  said  so." 

"Why?  "said  Nancy. 

"Well,  she  explained  it  pretty  thoroughly.  Apparently, 
it  isn't  a  sudden  decision,"  I  replied,  trying  to  choose  my 


A  FAR  COUNTRY 

words,  to  speak  composedly  as  I  repeated  the  gist  of  our 
conversation.  Nancy,  with  her  face  averted,  listened  in 
silence  —  a  silence  that  continued  some  time  after  I  had 
ceased  to  speak. 

"She  didn't  —  she  didn't  mention — ?"  the  sentence 
remained  unfinished. 

"No,"  I  said  quickly,  "she  didn't.  She  must  know,  of 
course,  but  I'm  sure  that  didn't  enter  into  it." 

Nancy's  eyes  as  they  returned  to  me  were  wet,  and  in  them 
was  an  expression  I  had  never  seen  before,  —  of  pain,  re 
proach,  of  questioning.  It  frightened  me. 

"Oh,  Hugh,  how  little  you  know !"  she  cried. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  demanded. 

"  That  is  what  has  brought  her  to  this  decision  —  you  and 
I." 

"You  mean  that  —  that  Maude  loves  me?  That  she  is 
jealous  ?  "  I  don't  know  how  I  managed  to  say  it. 

"No  woman  likes  to  think  that  she  is  a  failure,"  murmured 
Nancy. 

"Well,  but  she  isn't  really,"  I  insisted.  "She  could  have 
made  another  man  happy  —  a  better  man.  It  was  all  one 
of  those  terrible  mistakes  our  modern  life  seems  to  emphasize 
so." 

"She  is  a  woman,"  Nancy  said,  with  what  seemed  a 
touch  of  vehemence.  "It's  useless  to  expect  you  to  under 
stand.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  what  I  said  to  you  about 
her?  How  I  appealed  to  you  when  you  married  to  try  to 
appreciate  her  ?  " 

"It  wasn't  that  I  didn't  appreciate  her,"  I  interrupted, 
surprised  that  Nancy  should  have  recalled  this,  "she  isn't 
the  woman  for  me,  we  aren't  made  for  each  other.  It  was 
my  mistake,  my  fault,  I  admit,  but  I  don't  agree  with  you 
at  all,  that  we  had  anything  to  do  with  her  decision.  It  is 
just  the  —  the  culmination  of  a  long  period  of  incompatibility. 
She  has  come  to  realize  that  she  has  only  one  life  to  live,  and 
she  seems  happier,  more  composed,  more  herself  than  she 
has  ever  been  since  our  marriage.  Of  course  I  don't  mean  to 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  401 

say  it  isn't  painful  for  her.  .  .  .  But  I  am  sure  she  isn't  — 
well,  that  it  isn't  because  of  our  seeing  one  another,"  I  con 
cluded  haltingly. 

"  She  is  finer  than  either  of  us,  Hugh,  —  far  finer." 

I  did  not  relish  this  statement. 

"She's  fine,  I  admit.  But  I  can't  see  how  under  the  cir 
cumstances  any  of  us  could  have  acted  differently."  And 
Nancy  not  replying,  I  continued:  "She  has  made  up  her 
mind  to  go, — I  suppose  I  could  prevent  it  by  taking  extreme 
measures,  —  but  what  good  would  it  do  ?  Isn't  it,  after  all, 
the  most  sensible,  the  only  way  out  of  a  situation  that  has 
become  impossible?  Times  have  changed,  Nancy,  and  you 
yourself  have  been  the  first  to  admit  it.  Marriage  is  no 
longer  what  it  was,  and  people  are  coming  to  look  upon  it 
more  sensibly.  In  order  to  perpetuate  the  institution,  as 
it  was,  segregation,  insulation,  was  the  only  course.  Men 
segregated  their  wives,  women  their  husbands,  —  the  only 
logical  method  of  procedure,  but  it  limited  the  individual. 
Our  mothers  and  fathers  thought  it  scandalous  if  husband 
or  wife  paid  visits  alone.  It  wasn't  done.  But  our  modern 
life  has  changed  all  that.  A  marriage,  to  be  a  marriage, 
should  be  proof  against  disturbing  influences,  should  leave 
the  individuals  free ;  the  binding  element  should  be  love, 
not  the  force  of  an  imposed  authority.  You  seemed  to 
agree  to  all  this." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  admitted.  "But  I  cannot  think  that 
happiness  will  ever  grow  out  of  unhappiness." 

"But  Maude  will  not  be  unhappy,"  I  insisted.  "She  will 
be  happier,  far  happier,  now  that  she  has  taken  the  step." 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  thought  so,"  Nancy  exclaimed.  "Hugh, 
you  always  believe  what  you  want  to  believe.  And  the 
children.  How  can  you  bear  to  part  with  them  ?  " 

I  was  torn,  I  had  a  miserable  sense  of  inadequacy. 

"I  shall  miss  them,"  I  said.  "I  have  never  really  ap 
preciated  them.  I  admit  I  don't  deserve  to  have  them, 
and  I  am  willing  to  give  them  up  for  you,  for  Maude.  ..." 

We  had  made  one  of  our  favourite  drives  among  the  hills 

2D 


402  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

on  the  far  side  of  the  Ashuela,  and  at  six  were  back  at  Nancy's 
house.  I  did  not  go  in,  but  walked  slowly  homeward  up 
Grant  Avenue.  It  had  been  a  trying  afternoon.  I  had  not 
expected,  indeed,  that  Nancy  would  have  rejoiced,  but  her 
attitude,  her  silences,  betraying,  as  they  did,  compunctions, 
seemed  to  threaten  our  future  happiness. 


XXII 


ONE  evening  two  or  three  days  later  I  returned  from  the 
office  to  gaze  up  at  my  house,  to  realize  suddenly  that  it 
would  be  impossible  for  me  to  live  there,  in  those  great, 
empty  rooms,  alone ;  and  I  told  Maude  that  I  would  go  to 
the  Club  —  during  her  absence.  I  preferred  to  keep  up  the 
fiction  that  her  trip  would  only  be  temporary.  She  for 
bore  from  contradicting  me,  devoting  herself  efficiently  to 
the  task  of  closing  the  house,  making  it  seem,  somehow,  a 
rite,  —  the  final  rite  in  her  capacity  as  housewife.  The 
drawing-room  was  shrouded,  and  the  library;  the  books 
wrapped  neatly  in  paper;  a  smell  of  camphor  pervaded 
the  place ;  the  cheerful  schoolroom  was  dismantled ;  trunks 
and  travelling  bags  appeared.  The  solemn  butler  packed 
my  clothes,  and  I  arranged  for  a  room  at  the  Club  in  the 
wing  that  recently  had  been  added  for  the  accommodation 
of  bachelors  and  deserted  husbands.  One  of  the  ironies 
of  those  days  was  that  the  children  began  to  suggest  again 
possibilities  of  happiness  I  had  missed  —  especially  Matthew. 
With  all  his  gentleness,  the  boy  seemed  to  have  a  precocious 
understanding  of  the  verities,  and  the  capacity  for  suffering 
which  as  a  child  I  had  possessed.  But  he  had  more  self- 
control.  Though  he  looked  forward  to  the  prospect  of  new 
scenes  and  experiences  with  the  anticipation  natural  to  his 
temperament,  I  thought  he  betrayed  at  moments  a  certain 
intuition  as  to  what  was  going  on. 

"When  are  you  coming  over,  father?"  he  asked  once. 
"  How  soon  will  your  business  let  you  ?  " 

He  had  been  brought  up  in  the  belief  that  my  business 
was  a  tyrant. 

403 


404  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Oh,  soon',  Matthew,  —  sometime  soon,"  I  said. 

I  had  a  feeling  that  he  understood  me,  not  intellectually, 
but  emotionally.  What  a  companion  he  might  have 
been !  .  .  .  Moreton  and  Biddy  moved  me  less.  They 
were  more  robust,  more  normal,  less  introspective  and 
imaginative ;  Europe  meant  nothing  to  them,  but  they  were 
frankly  delighted  and  excited  at  the  prospect  of  going  on 
the  ocean,  asking  dozens  of  questions  about  the  great  ship, 
impatient  to  embark.  .  .  . 

"I  shan't  need  all  that,  Hugh/'  Maude  said,  when  I 
handed  her  a  letter  of  credit.  "I  —  I  intend  to  live  quite 
simply,  and  my  chief  expenses  will  be  the  children's  educa 
tion.  I  am  going  to  give  them  the  best,  of  course." 

"Of  course,"  I  replied.  "But  I  want  you  to  live  over 
there  as  you  have  been  accustomed  to  live  here.  It's  not 
exactly  generosity  on  my  part,  —  I  have  enough,  and  more 
than  enough." 

She  took  the  letter. 

"Another  thing  —  I'd  rather  you  didn't  go  to  New  York 
with  us,  Hugh.  I  know  you  are  busy — " 

"Of  course  I'm  going,"  I  started  to  protest. 

"No,"  she  went  on,  firmly.  "I'd  rather  you  didn't. 
The  hotel  people  will  put  me  on  the  steamer  very  comfort 
ably,  —  and  there  are  other  reasons  why  I  do  not  wish  it." 
I  did  not  insist.  .  .  .  On  the  afternoon  of  her  departure, 
when  I  came  uptown,  I  found  her  pinning  some  roses  on  her 
jacket. 

"Perry  and  Lucia  sent  them,"  she  informed  me.  She 
maintained  the  friendly,  impersonal  manner  to  the  very 
end ;  but  my  soul,  as  we  drove  to  the  train,  was  full  of  un- 
probed  wounds.  I  had  had  roses  put  in  her  compartments 
in  the  car;  Tom  and  Susan  Peters  were  there  with  more 
roses,  and  little  presents  for  the  children.  Their  cheerful 
ness  seemed  forced,  and  I  wondered  whether  they  suspected 
that  Maude's  absence  would  be  prolonged. 

"Write  us  often,  and  tell  us  all  about  it,  dear,"  said 
Susan,  as  she  sat  beside  Maude  and  held  her  hand;  Tom 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  405 

had  Biddy  on  his  knee.  Maude  was  pale,  but  smiling  and 
composed. 

"I  hope  to  get  a  little  villa  in  France,  near  the  sea,"  she 
said.  "I'll  send  you  a  photograph  of  it,  Susan." 

"And  Chickabiddy,  when  she  comes  back,  will  be  rattling 
off  French  like  a  native,"  exclaimed  Tom,  giving  her  a 
hug. 

"I  hate  French,"  said  Biddy,  and  she  looked  at  him  sol 
emnly.  "I  wish  you  were  coming  along,  Uncle  Tom." 

Bells  resounded  through  the  great  station.  The  porter 
warned  us  off.  I  kissed  the  children  one  by  one,  scarcely 
realizing  what  I  was  doing.  I  kissed  Maude.  She  received 
my  embrace  passively. 

"  Good-bye,  Hugh,"  she  said. 

I  alighted,  and  stood  on  the  platform  as  the  train  pulled 
out.  The  children  crowded  to  the  windows,  but  Maude 
did  not  appear.  ...  I  found  myself  walking  with  Tom  and 
Susan  past  hurrying  travellers  and  porters  to  the  Decatur 
Street  entrance,  where  my  automobile  stood  waiting. 

"I'll  take  you  home,  Susan,"  I  said. 

"  We're  ever  so  much  obliged,  Hugh,"  she  answered,  "but 
the  street-cars  go  almost  to  Perry's  door.  We're  dining 
there." 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  and  she  seemed  taller, 
more  ungainly  than  ever  —  older.  A  sudden  impression 
of  her  greatness  of  heart  was  borne  home  to  me,  and  I  grasped 
the  value  of  such  rugged  friendship  as  hers  —  as  Tom's. 

"We  shouldn't  know  how  to  behave  in  an  automobile," 
he  said,  as  though  to  soften  her  refusal.  And  I  stood  watch 
ing  their  receding  figures  as  they  walked  out  into  the  street 
and  hailed  the  huge  electric  car  that  came  to  a  stop  beyond 
them.  Above  its  windows  was  painted  "  The  Ashuela 
Traction  Company,"  a  label  reminiscent  of  my  professional 
activities.  Then  I  heard  the  chauffeur  ask :  — 

"Where  do  you  wish  to  go,  sir?" 

"To  the  Club,"  I  said. 

My  room  was  ready,  my  personal  belongings,  my  clothes 


406  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

had  been  laid  out,  my  photographs  were  on  the  dressing- 
table.  I  took  up,  mechanically,  the  evening  newspaper, 
but  I  could  not  read  it ;  I  thought  of  Maude,  of  the  children, 
memories  flowed  in  upon  me,  —  a  flood  not  to  be  dammed. 
.  .  .  Presently  the  club  valet  knocked  at  my  door.  He  had 
a  dinner  card. 

"  Will  you  be  dining  here,  sir  ?  "  he  inquired. 

I  went  downstairs.  Fred  Grierson  was  the  only  man  in 
the  dining-room. 

"Hello,  Hugh,"  he  said,  "come  and  sit  down.  I  hear 
your  wife's  gone  abroad." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "she  thought  she'd  try  it  instead  of 
the  South  Shore  this  summer." 

Perhaps  I  imagined  that  he  looked  at  me  queerly.  I  had 
made  a  great  deal  of  money  out  of  my  association  with  Grier 
son,  I  had  valued  very  highly  being  an  important  member 
of  the  group  to  which  he  belonged ;  but  to-night,  as  I  watched 
him  eating  and  drinking  greedily,  I  hated  him  even  as  I 
hated  myself.  And  after  dinner,  when  he  started  talking 
with  a  ridicule  that  was  a  thinly  disguised  bitterness  about 
the  Citizens  Union  and  their  preparations  for  a  campaign 
I  left  him  and  went  to  bed. 


Before  a  week  had  passed  my  painful  emotions  had  largely 
subsided,  and  with  my  accustomed  resiliency  I  had  regained 
the  feeling  of  self-respect  so  essential  to  my  happiness.  I 
was  free.  My  only  anxiety  was  for  Nancy,  who  had  gone 
to  New  York  the  day  after  my  last  talk  with  her;  and  it 
was  only  by  telephoning  to  her  house  that  I  discovered  when 
she  was  expected  to  return.  ...  I  found  her  sitting  beside 
one  of  the  open  French  windows  of  her  salon,  gazing  across 
at  the  wooded  hills  beyond  the  Ashuela.  She  was  serious, 
a  little  pale ;  more  exquisite,  more  desirable  than  ever ;  but 
her  manner  implied  the  pressure  of  control,  and  her  voice 
was  not  quite  steady  as  she  greeted  me. 

"You've  been  away  a  long  tune,"  I  said. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  407 

"The  dressmakers,"  she  answered.  Her  colour  rose  a 
little.  "I  thought  they'd  never  get  through." 

"But  why  didn't  you  drop  me  a  line,  let  me  know  when 
you  were  coming?"  I  asked,  taking  a  chair  beside  her,  and 
laying  my  hand  on  hers.  She  drew  it  gently  away. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

"I've  been  thinking  it  all  over  —  what  we're  doing.  It 
doesn't  seem  right,  it  seems  terribly  wrong." 

"But  I  thought  we'd  gone  over  all  that,"  I  replied,  as 
patiently  as  I  could.  "  You're  putting  it  on  an  old-fashioned, 
moral  basis." 

"But  there  must  be  some  basis,"  she  urged.  "There  are 
responsibilities,  obligations  —  there  must  be !  —  that  we 
can't  get  away  from.  I  can't  help  feeling  that  we  ought 
to  stand  by  our  mistakes,  and  by  our  bargains ;  we  made  a 
choice  —  it's  cheating,  somehow,  and  if  we  take  this  —  what 
we  want  —  we  shall  be  punished  for  it." 

"But  I'm  willing  to  be  punished,  to  suffer,  as  I  told  you. 
If  you  loved  me  — 

"Hugh!"  she  exclaimed,  and  I  was  silent.  "You  don't 
understand,"  she  went  on,  a  little  breathlessly,  "what  I 
mean  by  punishment  is  deterioration.  Do  you  remember 
once,  long  ago,  when  you  came  to  me  before  I  was  married, 
I  said  we'd  both  run  after  false  gods,  and  that  we  couldn't 
do  without  them?  Well,  and  now  this  has  come;  it  seems 
so  wonderful  to  me,  coming  again  like  that  after  we  had 
passed  it  by,  after  we  thought  it  had  gone  forever ;  it's  opened 
up  visions  for  me  that  I  never  hoped  to  see  again.  It  ought 
to  restore  us,  dear  —  that's  what  I'm  trying  to  say  —  to 
redeem  us,  to  make  us  capable  of  being  what  we  were  meant 
to  be.  If  it  doesn't  do  that,  if  it  isn't  doing  so,  it's  the  most 
horrible  of  travesties,  of  mockeries.  If  we  gain  life  only  to 
have  it  turn  into  death  —  slow  death ;  if  we  go  to  pieces 
again,  utterly.  For  now  there's  hope.  The  more  I  think, 
the  more  clearly  I  see  that  we  can't  take  any  step  without 
responsibilities.  If  we  take  this,  you'll  have  me,  and  I'll 
have  you.  And  if  we  don't  save  each  other  — " 


408  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"But  we  will,"  I  said. 

"Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  "if  we  could  start  new,  without  any 
past.  I  married  Ham  with  my  eyes  open." 

"  You  couldn't  know  that  he  would  become  —  well,  as 
flagrant  as  he  is.  You  didn't  really  know  what  he  was  then." 

"There's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  have  anticipated  it. 
I  can't  claim  that  I  was  deceived,  that  I  thought  my  mar 
riage  was  made  in  heaven.  I  entered  into  a  contract,  and 
Ham  has  kept  his  part  of  it  fairly  well.  He  hasn't  inter 
fered  with  my  freedom.  That  isn't  putting  it  on  a  high 
plane,  but  there  is  an  obligation  involved.  You  yourself, 
in  your  law  practice,  are  always  insisting  upon  the  sacred- 
ness  of  contract  as  the  very  basis  of  our  civilization." 

Here  indeed  would  have  been  a  home  thrust,  had  I  been 
vulnerable  at  the  time.  So  intent  was  I  on  overcoming 
her  objections,  that  I  resorted  unwittingly  to  the  modern 
argument  I  had  more  than  once  declared  in  court  to  be 
anathema  —  the  argument  of  the  new  reform  in  reference 
to  the  common  law  and  the  constitution. 

"A  contract,  no  matter  how  seriously  entered  into  at  the 
time  it  was  made,  that  later  is  seen  to  violate  the  principles 
of  humanity  should  be  void.  And  not  only  this,  but  you 
didn't  consent  that  he  should  disgrace  you." 

Nancy  winced. 

"I  never  told  you  that  he  paid  my  father's  debts,  I 
never  told  anyone,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Even  then,"  I  answered  after  a  moment,  "you  ought  to 
see  that  it's  too  terrible  a  price  to  pay  for  your  happiness. 
And  Ham  hasn't  ever  pretended  to  consider  you  in  any  way. 
It's  certain  you  didn't  agree  that  he  should  do  —  what  he 
is  doing." 

"Suppose  I  admitted  it,"  she  said,  "there  remain  Maude 
and  your  children.  Their  happiness,  then*  future  becomes 
my  responsibility  as  well  as  yours." 

"But  I  don't  love  Maude,  and  Maude  doesn't  love  me. 
I  grant  it's  my  fault,  that  I  did  her  a  wrong  in  marrying  her, 
but  she  is  right  in  leaving  me.  I  should  be  doing  her  a 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  409 

double  wrong.  And  the  children  will  be  happy  with  her, 
they  will  be  well  brought  up.  I,  too,  have  thought  this 
out,  Nancy,"  I  insisted,  "  and  the  fact  is  that  in  our  respec 
tive  marriages  we  have  been,  each  of  us,  victims  of  our  time, 
of  our  education.  We  were  born  in  a  period  of  transition, 
we  inherited  views  of  life  that  do  not  fit  conditions  to-day. 
It  takes  courage  to  achieve  happiness,  initiative  to  eman 
cipate  one's  self  from  a  morality  that  begins  to  hamper 
and  bind.  To  stay  as  we  are,  to  refuse  to  take  what  is 
offered  us,  is  to  remain  between  wind  and  water.  I  don't 
mean  that  we  should  do  anything  —  hastily.  We  can  afford 
to  take  a  reasonable  time,  to  be  dignified  about  it.  But  I 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  only  thing  that  matters 
in  the  world  is  a  love  like  ours,  and  its  fulfilment.  Achieve 
ment,  success,  are  empty  and  meaningless  without  it.  And 
you  do  love  me  —  you've  admitted  it." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it,"  she  exclaimed,  des 
perately. 

"But  we  have  to  talk  about  it,"  I  persisted.  "We  have 
to  thrash  it  out,  to  see  it  straight,  as  you  yourself  have  said." 

"  You  speak  of  convictions,  Hugh,  —  new  convictions,  in 
place  of  the  old  we  have  discarded.  But  what  are  they? 
And  is  there  no  such  thing  as  conscience  —  even  though  it 
be  only  an  intuition  of  happiness  or  unhappiness?  I  do 
care  for  you,  I  do  love  you — " 

"Then  why  not  let  that  suffice?"  I  exclaimed,  leaning 
towards  her. 

She  drew  back. 

"But  I  want  to  respect  you,  too,"  she  said. 

I  was  shocked,  too  shocked  to  answer. 

"I  want  to  respect  you,"  she  repeated,  more  gently.  "I 
don't  want  to  think  that  —  that  what  we  feel  for  each  other 
is  —  unconsecrated." 

"It  consecrates  itself,"  I  declared. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Surely  it  has  its  roots  in  everything  that  is  fine  in  both 
of  us." 


410  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"We  both  went  wrong,"  said  Nancy.  "We  both  sought 
to  wrest  power  and  happiness  from  the  world,  to  make  our 
own  laws.  How  can  we  assert  that  —  this  is  not  merely  a 
continuation  of  it  ?  " 

"  But  can't  we  work  out  our  beliefs  together  ?  "  I  demanded. 
"Won't  you  trust  me,  trust  our  love  for  one  another?  " 

Her  breath  came  and  went  quickly. 

"Oh,  you  know  that  I  want  you,  Hugh,  as  much  as  you 
want  me,  and  more.  The  time  may  come  when  I  can't 
resist  you." 

"Why  do  you  resist  me?"  I  cried,  seizing  her  hands  con 
vulsively,  and  swept  by  a  gust  of  passion  at  her  confession. 

"Try  to  understand  that  I  am  fighting  for  both  of  us!" 
she  pleaded  —  an  appeal  that  wrung  me  in  spite  of  the  pitch 
to  which  my  feelings  had  been  raised.  "Hugh,  dear,  we 
must  think  it  out.  Don't  —  now." 

I  let  her  hands  drop.  .  .  . 


Beyond  the  range  of  hills  rising  from  the  far  side  of  the 
Ashuela  was  the  wide  valley  in  which  was  situated  the  Clover- 
dale  Country  Club,  with  its  polo  field,  golf  course  and  tennis- 
courts  ;  and  in  this  same  valley  some  of  our  wealthy  citizens, 
such  as  Howard  Ogilvy  and  Leonard  Dickinson,  had  bought 
"farms,"  week-end  playthings  for  spring  and  autumn. 
Hambleton  Durrett  had  started  the  fashion.  Capriciously, 
as  he  did  everything  else,  he  had  become  the  owner  of  sev 
eral  hundred  acres  of  pasture,  woodland  and  orchard,  ac 
quired  some  seventy-five  head  of  blooded  stock,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  house  them  in  model  barns  and  milk  by  machinery ; 
for  several  months  he  had  bored  everyone  in  the  Boyne 
Club  whom  he  could  entice  into  conversation  on  the  subject 
of  the  records  of  pedigreed  cows,  and  spent  many  bibulous 
nights  on  the  farm  in  company  with  those  parasites  who 
surrounded  him  when  he  was  in  town.  Then  another  in 
terest  had  intervened;  a  feminine  one,  of  course,  and  his 
energies  were  transferred  (so  we  understood)  to  the  recon- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  411 

struction  and  furnishing  of  a  little  residence  in  New  York, 
not  far  from  Fifth  Avenue.  The  farm  continued  under  the 
expert  direction  of  a  superintendent  who  was  a  graduate  of 
the  State  Agricultural  College,  and  a  select  clientele,  which 
could  afford  to  pay  the  prices,  consumed  the  milk  and  cream 
and  butter.  Quite  consistent  with  their  marital  relations 
was  the  fact  that  Nancy  should  have  taken  a  fancy  to  the 
place  after  Ham's  interest  had  waned.  Not  that  she  cared 
for  the  Guernseys,  or  Jerseys,  or  whatever  they  may  have 
been ;  she  evinced  a  sudden  passion  for  simplicity,  —  occa 
sional  simplicity,  at  least,  —  for  a  contrast  to  and  escape 
from  a  complicated  life  of  luxury.  She  built  another  house 
for  the  superintendent,  banished  him  from  the  little  farm 
house  (where  Ham  had  kept  two  rooms) ;  banished  along 
with  the  superintendent  the  stiff  plush  furniture,  the  yellow- 
red  carpets,  the  easels  and  the  melodeon,  and  decked  it  out 
in  bright  chintzes,  with  wall-papers  to  match,  dainty  muslin 
curtains,  and  rag-carpet  rugs  on  the  hardwood  floors.  The 
pseudo-classic  porch  over  the  doorway,  which  had  suggested 
a  cemetery,  was  removed,  and  a  wide  piazza  added,  furnished 
with  wicker  lounging  chairs  and  tables,  and  shaded  with  gay 
awnings. 

Here,  to  the  farm,  accompanied  by  a  maid,  she  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  retiring  from  time  to  time,  and  here  she  came 
in  early  July.  Here,  dressed  in  the  simplest  linen  gowns  of 
pink  or  blue  or  white,  I  found  a  Nancy  magically  restored  to 
girlhood,  —  a  new  Nancy,  betraying  only  traces  of  the  old, 
a  new  Nancy  in  a  new  Eden.  We  had  all  the  setting,  all 
the  illusion  of  that  perfect  ideal  of  domesticity,  love  in  a 
cottage.  Nancy  and  I,  who  all  our  lives  had  spurned  sim 
plicity,  laughed  over  the  joy  we  found  in  it :  she  made  a  high 
art  of  it,  of  course ;  we  had  our  simple  dinners,  which  Mrs. 
Olsen  cooked  and  served  in  the  open  air ;  sometimes  on  the 
porch,  sometimes  under  the  great  butternut  tree  spreading 
its  shade  over  what  in  a  more  elaborate  country-place, 
would  have  been  called  a  lawn,  —  an  uneven  plot  of  grass 
of  ridges  and  hollows  that  ran  down  to  the  orchard.  Nancy's 


412  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

eyes  would  meet  mine  across  the  little  table,  and  often  our 
gaze  would  wander  over  the  pastures  below,  lucent  green 
in  the  level  evening  light,  to  the  darkening  woods  beyond, 
gilt-tipped  in  the  setting  sun.  There  were  fields  of  ripening 
yellow  grain,  of  lusty  young  corn  that  grew  almost  as  we 
watched  it:  the  warm  winds  of  evening  were  heavy  with 
•the  acrid  odours  of  fecundity.  Fecundity !  In  that  lay  the 
elusive  yet  insistent  charm  of  that  country;  and  Nancy's, 
of  course,  was  the  transforming  touch  that  made  it  paradise. 
It  was  thus,  in  the  country,  I  suggested  that  we  should  spend 
the  rest  of  our  existence.  What  was  the  use  of  amassing 
money,  when  happiness  was  to  be  had  so  simply  ? 

"How  long  do  you  think  you  could  stand  it?"  she  asked, 
as  she  handed  me  a  plate  of  blackberries. 

"Forever,  with  the  right  woman,"  I  announced. 

"How  long  could  the  woman  stand  it?"  .  .  .  She  hu 
moured,  smilingly,  my  crystal-gazing  into  our  future,  as  though 
she  had  not  the  heart  to  deprive  me  of  the  pleasure. 

"I  simply  can't  believe  in  it,  Hugh,"  she  said  when  I 
pressed  her  for  an  answer. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  suppose  it's  because  I  believe  in  continuity,  I  haven't 
the  romantic  temperament,  —  I  always  see  the  angel  with 
the  flaming  sword.  It  isn't  that  I  want  to  see  him." 

"But  we  shall  redeem  ourselves,"  I  said.  "It  won't  be 
curiosity  and  idleness.  We  are  not  just  taking  this  thing, 
and  expecting  to  give  nothing  for  it  in  return." 

"What  can  we  give  that  is  worth  it?"  she  exclaimed,  with 
one  of  her  revealing  flashes. 

"  We  won't  take  it  lightly,  but  seriously,"  I  told  her.  "  We 
shall  find  something  to  give,  and  that  something  will  spring 
naturally  out  of  our  love.  We'll  read  together,  and  think  and 
plan  together." 

"Oh,  Hugh,  you  are  incorrigible,"  was  all  she  said. 

The  male  tendency  in  me  was  forever  strained  to  solve 
her,  to  deduce  from  her  conversation  and  conduct  a  body  of 
consistent  law.  The  effort  was  useless.  Here  was  a  realm, 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  413 

that  of  Nancy's  soul,  in  which  there  was  apparently  no  such 
thing  as  relevancy.  In  the  twilight,  after  dinner,  we  often 
walked  through  the  orchard  to  a  grassy  bank  beside  the  little 
stream,  where  we  would  sit  and  watch  the  dying  glow  in  the 
sky.  After  a  rain  its  swollen  waters  were  turbid,  opaque 
yellow-red  with  the  clay  of  the  hills ;  at  other  tunes  it  ran 
smoothly,  temperately,  almost  clear  between  the  pasture 
grasses  and  wild  flowers.  Nancy  declared  that  it  reminded 
her  of  me.  We  sat  there,  into  the  lush,  warm  nights,  and 
the  moon  shone  down  on  us,  or  again  through  long  silences 
we  searched  the  bewildering,  starry  chart  of  the  heavens, 
with  the  undertones  of  the  night-chorus  of  the  fields  in  our 
ears.  Sometimes  she  let  my  head  rest  upon  her  knee; 
but  when,  throbbing  at  her  touch,  with  the  life-force  pulsing 
around  us,  I  tried  to  take  her  in  my  arms,  to  bring  her  lips 
to  mine,  she  resisted  me  with  an  energy  of  will  and  body  that 
I  could  not  overcome,  I  dared  not  overcome.  She  acknowl 
edged  her  love  for  me,  she  permitted  me  to  come  to  her,  she 
had  the  air  of  yielding,  but  never  yielded.  Why,  then,  did 
she  allow  the  words  of  love  to  pass?  and  how  draw  the 
line  between  caresses?  I  was  maddened  and  disheartened 
by  that  elusive  resistance  in  her  —  apparently  so  frail  a 
thing !  —  that  neither  argument  nor  importunity  could 
break  down.  Was  there  something  lacking  in  me?  or  was 
it  that  I  feared  to  mar  or  destroy  the  love  she  had.  This, 
surely,  had  not  been  the  fashion  of  other  loves,  called  unlaw 
ful  ;  the  classic  instances  celebrated  by  the  poets  of  all  ages 
rose  to  mock  me. 

"Incurably  romantic,"  she  had  called  me,  in  calmer 
moments,  when  I  was  able  to  discuss  our  affair  objectively. 
And  once  she  declared  that  I  had  no  sense  of  tragedy.  We 
read  "Macbeth:"  together,  I  remember,  one  rainy  Sunday. 
The  modern  world,  which  was  our  generation,  would  seem 
to  be  cut  off  from  all  that  preceded  it  as  with  a  descending 
knife.  It  was  precisely  from  "the  sense  of  tragedy"  that 
we  had  been  emancipated  :  from  the  "  agonized  conscience," 
I  should  undoubtedly  have  said,  had  I  been  acquainted 


414  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

then  with  Mr.  Santayana's  later  phrase.  Conscience, — 
the  old  kind  of  conscience,  —  and  nothing  inherent  in  the 
deeds  themselves,  made  the  tragedy ;  conscience  was  super 
stition,  the  fear  of  the  wrath  of  the  gods:  conscience  was 
the  wrath  of  the  gods.  Eliminate  it,  and  behold!  there 
were  no  consequences.  The  gods  themselves,  that  kind 
of  gods,  became  as  extinct  as  the  deities  of  the  Druids,  the 
Greek  fates,  the  terrible  figures  of  German  mythology. 
Yes,  and  as  the  God  of  Christian  orthodoxy. 

Had  any  dire  calamities  overtaken  the  modern  Macbeths, 
of  whose  personal  lives  we  happened  to  know  something? 
Had  not  these  great  ones  broken  with  impunity  all  the  laws 
of  traditional  morality?  They  ground  the  faces  of  the 
poor,  played  golf  and  went  to  church  with  serene  minds, 
untroubled  by  criticism;  they  appropriated,  quite  freely, 
other  men's  money,  and  some  of  them  other  men's  wives, 
and  yet  they  were  not  haggard  with  remorse.  The  gods 
remained  silent.  Christian  ministers  regarded  these  modern 
transgressors  of  ancient  laws  benignly  and  accepted  their 
contributions.  Here,  indeed,  were  the  supermen  of  the 
mad  German  prophet  and  philosopher  come  to  life,  refuting 
all  classic  tragedy.  It  is  true  that  some  of  these  supermen 
were  occasionally  swept  away  by  disease,  -which  in  ancient 
days  would  have  been  regarded  as  a  retributive  scourge,  but 
was  in  fact  nothing  but  the  logical  working  of  the  laws  of 
hygiene,  the  result  of  overwork.  Such,  though  stated  more 
crudely,  were  my  contentions  when  desire  did  not  cloud  my 
brain  and  make  me  incoherent.  And  I  did  not  fail  to  remind 
*  Nancy,  constantly,  that  this  was  the  path  on  which  her 
y'feet  had  been  set;  that  to  waver  now  was  to  perish.  She 
smiled,  yet  she  showed  concern. 

"  But  suppose  you  don't  get  what  you  want  ?  "  she  objected. 
"What  then?  Suppose  one  doesn't  become  a  superman?  or 
a  superwoman?  What's  to  happen  to  one?  Is  there  no 
god  but  the  superman's  god,  which  is  himself?  Are  there 
no  gods  for  those  who  can't  be  supermen  ?  or  for  those  who 
may  refuse  to  be  supermen?" 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  415 

To  refuse,  I  maintained,  were  a  weakness  of  the  will. 

"But  there  are  other  wills,"  she  persisted,  "wills  over 
which  the  superman  may  conceivably  have  no  control. 
Suppose,  for  example,  that  you  don't  get  me,  that  my  will 
intervenes,  granting  it  to  be  conceivable  that  your  future 
happiness  and  welfare,  as  you  insist,  depend  upon  your  get 
ting  me  —  which  I  doubt." 

"You've  no  reason  to  doubt  it." 

"Well,  granting  it,  then.  Suppose  the  orthodoxies  and 
superstitions  succeed  in  inhibiting  me.  I  may  not  be  a 
superwoman,  but  my  will,  or  my  conscience,  if  you  choose, 
may  be  stronger  than  yours.  If  you  don't  get  what  you 
want,  you  aren't  happy.  In  other  words,  you  fail.  Where 
are  your  gods  then  ?  The  trouble  with  you,  my  dear  Hugh, 
is  that  you  have  never  failed,"  she  went  on,  "you've  never 
had  a  good,  hard  fall,  you've  always  been  on  the  winning 
side,  and  you've  never  had  the  world  against  you.  No  won 
der  you  don't  understand  the  meaning  and  value  of  tragedy." 

"And  you?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  she  agreed,  "nor  I.  Yet  I  have  come  to  feel, 
instinctively,  that  somehow  concealed  in  tragedy  is  the 
central  fact  of  life,  the  true  reality,  that  nothing  is  to  be  got 
by  dodging  it,  as  we  have  dodged  it.  Your  superman,  at 
least  the  kind  of  superman  you  portray,  is  petrified.  Some 
thing  vital  in  him,  that  should  be  plastic  and  sensitive,  has 
turned  to  stone." 

"Since  when  did  you  begin  to  feel  this?"  I  inquired 
uneasily. 

"Since  —  well,  since  we  have  been  together  again,  in 
the  last  month  or  two.  Something  seems  to  warn  me  that 
if  we  take  —  what  we  want,  we  shan't  get  it.  That's  an 
Irish  saying,  I  know,  but  it  expresses  my  meaning.  I  may 
be  little,  I  may  be  superstitious,  unlike  the  great  women  of 
history  who  have  dared.  But  it's  more  than  mere  playing 
safe  —  my  instinct,  I  mean.  You  see,  you  are  involved. 
I  believe  I  shouldn't  hesitate  if  only  myself  were  concerned, 
but  you  are  the  uncertain  quantity  —  more  uncertain  than 


416  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

you  have  any  idea ;  you  think  you  know  yourself,  you  think 
you  have  analyzed  yourself,  but  the  truth  is,  Hugh,  you 
don't  know  the  meaning  of  struggle  against  real  resistance." 

I  was  about  to  protest. 

"I  know  that  you  have  conquered  in  the  world  of  men 
and  affairs,"  she  hurried  on,  "  against  resistance,  but  it  isn't 
the  kind  of  resistance  I  mean.  It  doesn't  differ  essentially 
from  the  struggle  in  the  animal  kingdom." 

I  bowed.     "Thank  you,"  I  said. 

She  laughed  a  little. 

"Oh,  I  have  worshipped  success,  too.  Perhaps  I  still 
do  —  that  isn't  the  point.  An  animal  conquers  his  prey,  he 
is  in  competition,  in  constant  combat  with  others  of  his  own 
kind,  and  perhaps  he  brings  to  bear  a  certain  amount  of 
intelligence  in  the  process.  Intelligence  isn't  the  point, 
either.  I  know  what  I'm  saying  is  trite,  it's  banal,  it  sounds 
like  moralizing,  and  perhaps  it  is,  but  there  is  so  much  con 
fusion  to-day  that  I  think  we  are  in  danger  of  losing  sight  of 
the  simpler  verities,  and  that  we  must  suffer  for  it.  Your 
super-animal,  your  supreme-stag  subdues  the  other  stags, 
but  he  never  conquers  himself,  he  never  feels  the  need  of  it, 
and  therefore  he  never  comprehends  what  we  call  tragedy." 

"I  gather  your  inference,"  I  said,  smiling. 

"Well,"  she  admitted,  "I  haven't  stated  the  case  with 
the  shade  of  delicacy  it  deserves,  but  I  wanted  to  make  my 
meaning  clear.  We  have  raised  up  a  class  in  America,  but 
we  have  lost  sight,  a  little  —  considerably,  I  think  —  of 
the  distinguishing  human  characteristics.  The  men  you 
were  eulogizing  are  lords  of  the  forest,  more  or  less,  and 
we  women,  who  are  of  their  own  kind,  what  they  have  made 
us,  surrender  ourselves  in  submission  and  adoration  to  the 
lordly  stag  in  the  face  of  all  the  sacraments  that  have 
been  painfully  inaugurated  by  the  race  for  the  very  purpose 
of  distinguishing  us  from  animals.  It  is  equivalent  to  saying 
that  there  is  no  moral  law ;  or,  if  there  is,  nobody  can  de 
fine  it.  We  deny,  inferentially,  a  human  realm  as  dis 
tinguished  from  the  animal,  and  in  the  denial  it  seems  to 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  417 

me  we  are  cutting  ourselves  off  from  what  is  essential  — 
human  development.  We  are  reverting  to  the  animal.  I 
have  lost  and  you  have  lost  —  not  entirely,  perhaps,  but 
still  to  a  considerable  extent  —  the  bloom  of  that  fervour, 
of  that  idealism,  we  may  call  it,  that  both  of  us  possessed 
when  we  were  in  our  teens.  We  had  occasional  visions. 
We  didn't  know  what  they  meant,  or  how  to  set  about  their 
accomplishment,  but  they  were  not,  at  least,  mere  selfish 
aspirations;  they  implied,  unconsciously  no  doubt,  an 
element  of  service,  and  certainly  our  ideal  of  marriage  had 
something  fine  in  it." 

"Isn't  it  for  a  higher  ideal  of  marriage  that  we  are  search 
ing?"  I  asked. 

"If  that  is  so,"  Nancy  objected,  "then  all  the  other  ele 
ments  of  our  lives  are  sadly  out  of  tune  with  it.  Even  the 
most  felicitous  union  of  the  sexes  demands  sacrifice,  an 
adjustment  of  wills,  and  these  are  the  very  things  we  balk 
at;  and  the  trouble  with  our  entire  class  in  this  country  is 
that  we  won't  acknowledge  any  responsibility,  there's  no- 
sacrifice  in  our  eminence,  we  have  no  sense  of  the  whole." 

"  Where  did  you  get  all  these  ideas  ?  "  I  demanded. 

She  laughed. 

"Well,"  she  admitted,  "I've  been  thrashing  around  a 
little ;  and  I've  read  some  of  the  moderns,  you  know.  Do 
you  remember  my  telling  you  I  didn't  agree  with  them? 
and  now  this  thing  has  come  on  me  like  a  judgment.  I've 
caught  their  mania  for  liberty,  for  self-realization  —  what 
ever  they  call  it  —  but  their  remedies  are  vague,  they  fail 
to  convince  me  that  individuals  achieve  any  quality  by  just 
taking  what  they  want,  regardless  of  others."  .  .  . 

I  was  unable  to  meet  this  argument,  and  the  result  was 
that  when  I  was  away  from  her  I  too  began  to  "thrash 
around"  among  the  books  in  a  vain  search  for  a  radical 
with  a  convincing  and  satisfying  philosophy.  Thus  we  fly 
to  literature  in  crises  of  the  heart!  There  was  no  lack  of 
writers  who  sought  to  deal  —  and  deal  triumphantly  — 
with  the  very  situation  in  which  I  was  immersed.  I  marked 


418  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

many  passages,  to  read  them  over  to  Nancy,  who  was  in 
terested,  but  who  accused  me  of  being  willing  to  embrace 
any  philosophy,  ancient  or  modern,  that  ran  with  the  stream 
of  my  desires.  It  is  worth  recording  that  the  truth  of  this 
struck  home.  On  my  way  back  to  the  city  I  reflected  that, 
in  spite  of  my  protests  against  Maude's  going  —  protests 
wholly  sentimental  and  impelled  by  the  desire  to  avoid 
giving  pain  on  the  spot  —  I  had  approved  of  her  departure 
because  I  didn't  want  her.  On  the  other  hand  I  had  to 
acknowledge  if  I  hadn't  wanted  Nancy,  or  rather,  if  I  had 
become  tired  of  her,  I  should  have  been  willing  to  endorse 
her  scruples.  ...  It  was  not  a  comforting  thought. 


One  morning  when  I  was  absently  opening  the  mail  I 
found  at  my  office  I  picked  up  a  letter  from  Theodore  Wat- 
ling,  written  from  a  seaside  resort  in  Maine,  the  contents 
of  which  surprised  and  touched  me,  troubled  me,  and  com 
pelled  me  to  face  a  situation  with  which  I  was  wholly  un 
prepared  to  cope.  He  announced  that  this  was  to  be  his 
last  term  in  the  Senate.  He  did  not  name  the  trouble  his 
physician  had  discovered,  but  he  had  been  warned  that  he 
must  retire  from  active  life.  "The  specialist  whom  I  saw 
in  New  York,"  he  went  on,  "wished  me  to  resign  at  once, 
but  when  I  pointed  out  to  him  how  unfair  this  would  be  to 
my  friends  in  the  state,  to  my  party  as  a  whole  —  especially 
in  these  serious  and  unsettled  times  —  he  agreed  that  I 
might  with  proper  care  serve  out  the  remainder  of  my  term. 
I  have  felt  it  my  duty  to  write  to  Barbour  and  Dickinson 
and  one  or  two  others  in  order  that  they  might  be  prepared 
and  that  no  time  may  be  lost  in  choosing  my  successor.  It 
is  true  that  the  revolt  within  the  party  has  never  gained 
much  headway  in  our  state,  but  in  these  days  it  is  difficult 
to  tell  when  and  where  a  conflagration  may  break  out,  or 
how  far  it  will  go.  I  have  ventured  to  recommend  to  them 
the  man  who  seems  to  me  the  best  equipped  to  carry  on  the 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  419 

work  I  have  been  trying  to  do  here  —  in  short,  my  dear 
Hugh,  yourself.  The  Senate,  as  you  know,  is  not  a  bed  of 
roses  just  now  for  those  who  think  as  we  do ;  but  I  have  the 
less  hesitancy  in  making  the  recommendation  because  I 
believe  you  are  not  one  to  shun  a  fight  for  the  convictions 
we  hold  in  common,  and  because  you  would  regard,  with 
me,  the  election  of  a  senator  with  the  new  views  as  a  very 
real  calamity.  If  sound  business  men  and  lawyers  should 
be  eliminated  from  the  Senate,  I  could  not  contemplate 
with  any  peace  of  mind  what  might  happen  to  the  country. 
In  thus  urging  you,  I  know  you  will  believe  me  when  I  say 
that  my  affection  and  judgment  are  equally  involved,  for 
it  would  be  a  matter  of  greater  pride  than  I  can  express  to 
have  you  follow  me  here  as  you  have  followed  me  at  home. 
And  I  beg  of  you  seriously  to  consider  it.  ...  I  understand 
that  Maude  and  the  children  are  abroad.  Remember  me 
to  them  affectionately  when  you  write.  If  you  can  find  it 
convenient  to  come  here,  to  Maine,  to  discuss  the  matter, 
you  may  be  sure  of  a  welcome.  In  any  case,  I  expect  to  be 
in  Washington  in  September  for  a  meeting  of  our  special 
committee.  Sincerely  and  affectionately  yours,  Theodore 
Watling." 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  the  tone  of  the  letter 
should  be  uniformly  cheerful,  that  he  should  say  nothing 
whatever  of  the  blow  this  must  be  to  his  ambitions  and 
hopes ;  and  my  agitation  at  the  new  and  disturbing  prospect 
thus  opened  up  for  me  was  momentarily  swept  away  by 
feelings  of  affection  and  sorrow.  A  sharp  realization  came 
to  me  of  how  much  I  admired  and  loved  this  man,  and  this 
was  followed  by  a  pang  at  the  thought  of  the  disappointment 
my  refusal  would  give  him.  Complications  I  did  not  wish 
to  examine  were  then  in  the  back  of  my  mind;  and  while 
I  still  sat  holding  the  letter  in  my  hand  the  telephone  rang, 
and  a  message  came  from  Leonard  Dickinson  begging  me 
to  call  at  the  bank  at  once. 

Miller  Gorse  was  there,  and  Tallant,  waving  a  palm-leaf 
while  sitting  under  the  electric  fan.  They  were  all  very 


420  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

grave,  and  they  began  to  talk  about  the  suddenness  of 
Mr.  Watling's  illness  and  to  speculate  upon  its  nature. 
Leonard  Dickinson  was  the  most  moved  of  the  three ;  but 
they  were  all  distressed,  and  showed  it  —  even  Tallant, 
whom  I  had  never  credited  with  any  feelings;  they  spoke 
about  the  loss  to  the  state.  At  length  Gorse  took  a  cigar 
from  his  pocket  and  lighted  it ;  the  smoke,  impelled  by  the 
fan,  drifted  over  the  panelled  partition  into  the  bank. 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Watling  mentioned  to  you  what  he  wrote 
to  us,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  I  admitted. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  attribute  it  to  Mr.  Watling's  friendship,"  I  replied. 

"No,"  said  Gorse,  in  his  businesslike  manner,  "Watling's 
right,  there's  no  one  else."  Considering  the  number  of 
inhabitants  of  our  state,  this  remark  had  its  humorous 
aspect. 

"That's  true,"  Dickinson  put  in,  "there's  no  one  else 
available  who  understands  the  situation  as  you  do,  Hugh, 
no  one  else  we  can  trust  as  we  trust  you.  I  had  a  wire  from 
Mr.  Barbour  this  morning  —  he  agrees.  We'll  miss  you 
here,  but  now  that  Watling  will  be  gone  we'll  need  you  there. 
And  he's  right  —  it's  something  we've  got  to  decide  on 
right  away,  and  get  started  on  soon,  we  can't  afford  to  wob 
ble  and  run  any  chances  of  a  revolt." 

"  It  isn't  everybody  the  senatorship  comes  to  on  a  platter 
—  especially  at  your  age,"  said  Tallant. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  I  answered,  addressing  Dickinson, 
"I'm  not  prepared  to  talk  about  it  now.  I  appreciate  the 
honour,  but  I'm  not  at  all  sure  I'm  the  right  man.  And 
I've  been  considerably  upset  by  this  news  of  Mr.  Watling." 

"Naturally  you  would  be,"  said  the  banker,  sympathet 
ically,  "and  we  share  your  feelings.  I  don't  know  of  any 
man  for  whom  I  have  a  greater  affection  than  I  have  for 
Theodore  Watling.  We  shouldn't  have  mentioned  it  now, 
Hugh,  if  Watling  hadn't  started  the  thing  himself,  if  it 
weren't  important  to  know  where  we  stand  right  away. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  421 

We  can't  afford  to,  lose  the  seat.  Take  your  time,  but 
remember  you're  the  man  we  depend  upon." 

Gorse  nodded.  I  was  aware,  all  the  time  Dickinson  was 
speaking,  of  being  surrounded  by  the  strange,  disquieting 
gaze  of  the  counsel  for  the  Railroad.  .  .  . 

I  went  back  to  my  office  to  spend  an  uneasy  morning. 
My  sorrow  for  Mr.  Watling  was  genuine,  but  nevertheless 
I  found  myself  compelled  to  consider  an  honour  no  man 
lightly  refuses.  Had  it  presented  itself  at  any  other  time, 
had  it  been  due  to  a  happier  situation  than  that  brought 
about  by  the  illness  of  a  man  whom  I  loved  and  admired,  I 
should  have  thought  the  prospect  dazzling  indeed,  part 
and  parcel  of  my  amazing  luck.  But  now  —  now  I  was  in 
an  emotional  state  that  distorted  the  factors  of  life,  all  those 
things  I  hitherto  had  valued;  even  such  a  prize  as  this  I 
weighed  in  terms  of  one  supreme  desire:  how  would  the 
acceptance  of  the  senatorship  affect  the  accomplishment  of 
this  desire  ?  That  was  the  question.  I  began  making  rapid 
calculations:  the  actual  election  would  take  place  in  the 
legislature  a  year  from  the  following  January;  provided 
I  were  able  to  overcome  Nancy's  resistance  —  which  I  was 
determined  to  do  —  nothing  in  the  way  of  divorce  proceed 
ings  could  be  thought  of  for  more  than  a  year ;  and  I  feared 
delay.  On  the  other  hand,  if  we  waited  until  after  I  had 
been  duly  elected  to  get  my  divorce  and  marry  Nancy  my 
chances  of  reelection  would  be  small.  What  did  I  care  for 
the  senatorship  anyway  —  if  I  had  her  ?  and  I  wanted  her 
now,  as  soon  as  I  could  get  her.  She  —  a  life  with  her  rep 
resented  new  values,  new  values  I  did  not  define,  that 
made  all  I  had  striven  for  in  the  past  of  little  worth.  This 
was  a  bauble  compared  with  the  companionship  of  the 
woman  I  loved,  the  woman  intended  for  me,  who  would 
give  me  peace  of  mind  and  soul  and  develop  those  truer 
aspirations  that  had  long  been  thwarted  and  starved  for 
lack  of  her.  Gradually,  as  she  regained  the  ascendency 
over  my  mind  she  ordinarily  held  —  and  from  which  she 
had  been  temporarily  displaced  by  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Wat- 


422  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

ling's  letter  and  the  talk  in  the  bank  —  I  became  impatient 
and  irritated  by  the  intrusion.  But  what  answer  should 
I  give  to  Dickinson  and  Gorse?  what  excuse  for  declining 
such  an  offer?  I  decided,  as  may  be  imagined,  to  wait, 
to  temporize. 

The  irony  of  circumstances  —  of  what  might  have  been 
—  prevented  now  my  laying  this  trophy  at  Nancy's  feet, 
for  I  knew  I  had  only  to  mention  the  matter  to  be  certain 
of  losing  her. 


XXIII 


I  HAD  bought  a  small  automobile,  which  I  ran  myself, 
and  it  was  my  custom  to  arrive  at  the  farm  every  evening 
about  five  o'clock.  But  as  I  look  back  upon  those  days 
they  seem  to  have  lost  succession,  to  be  fused  together,  as 
it  were,  into  one  indeterminable  period  by  the  intense  pres 
sure  of  emotion ;  unsatisfied  emotion,  —  and  the  state  of 
physical  and  mental  disorganization  set  up  by  it  is  in  the 
retrospect  not  a  little  terrifying.  The  world  grew  more 
and  more  distorted,  its  affairs  were  neglected,  things  upon 
which  I  had  set  high  values  became  as  nothing.  And  even 
if  I  could  summon  back  something  of  the  sequence  of  our 
intercourse,  it  would  be  a  mere  repetition  —  growing  on  my 
part  more  irrational  and  insistent  —  of  what  I  have  already 
related.  There  were  long,  troubled,  and  futile  silences  when 
we  sat  together  on  the  porch  or  in  the  woods  and  fields; 
when  I  wondered  whether  it  were  weakness  or  strength  that 
caused  Nancy  to  hold  out  against  my  importunities :  the 
fears  she  professed  of  retribution,  the  benumbing  effects  of 
the  conventional  years,  or  the  deep-rooted  remnants  of  a 
Calvinism  which  —  as  she  proclaimed  —  had  lost  definite 
expression  to  persist  as  an  intuition.  I  recall  something  she 
said  when  she  turned  to  me  after  one  of  these  silences. 

"Do  you  know  how  I  feel  sometimes?  as  though  you  and 
I  had  wandered  together  into  a  strange  country,  and  lost 
our  way.  We  have  lost  our  way,  Hugh  —  it's  all  so  clandes 
tine,  so  feverish,  so  unnatural,  so  unrelated  to  life,  this 
existence  we're  leading.  I  believe  it  would  be  better  if  it 
were  a  mere  case  of  physical  passion.  I  can't  help  it,"  she 
went  on,  when  I  had  exclaimed  against  this,  "  we  are  too  — 

423 


424  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

too  complicated,  you  are  too  complicated.  It's  because 
we  want  the  morning  stars,  don't  you  see?"  She  wound 
her  fingers  tightly  around  mine.  "We  not  only  want  this, 
but  all  of  life  besides  —  you  wouldn't  be  satisfied  with  any 
thing  less.  Oh,  I  know  it.  That's  your  temperament,  — 
you  were  made  that  way,  and  I  shouldn't  be  satisfied  if  you 
weren't.  The  time  would  come  when  you  would  blame 
me  —  I  don't  mean  vulgarly  —  and  I  couldn't  stand  that. 
If  you  weren't  that  way,  if  that  weren't  your  nature,  I  mean, 
I  should  have  given  way  long  ago." 

I  made  some  sort  of  desperate  protest. 

"No,  if  I  didn't  know  you  so  well  I  believe  I  should  have 
given  in  long  ago.  I'm  not  thinking  of  you  alone,  but  of 
myself,  too.  I'm  afraid  I  shouldn't  be  happy,  that  I  should 
begin  to  think  —  and  then  I  couldn't  stop.  The  plain  truth, 
as  I've  told  you  over  and  over  again,  is  that  I'm  not  big 
enough."  She  continued  smiling  at  me,  a  smile  on  which 
I  could  not  bear  to  look.  "I  was  wrong  not  to  have  gone 
away,"  I  heard  her  say.  "I  will  go  away." 

I  was,  at  the  time,  too  profoundly  discouraged  to  answer. .  . . 

One  evening  after  an  exhausting  talk  we  sat,  inert,  on 
the  grass  hummock  beside  the  stream.  Heavy  clouds  had 
gathered  in  the  sky,  the  light  had  deepened  to  amethyst, 
the  valley  was  still,  swooning  with  expectancy,  louder  and 
louder  the  thunder  rolled  from  behind  the  distant  hills,  and 
presently  a  veil  descended  to  hide  them  from  our  view. 
Great  drops  began  to  fall,  unheeded. 

"We  must  go  in,"  said  Nancy,  at  length. 

I  followed  her  across  the  field  and  through  the  orchard. 
From  the  porch  we  stood  gazing  out  at  the  whitening  rain 
that  blotted  all  save  the  nearer  landscape,  and  the  smell  of 
wet,  midsummer  grasses  will  always  be  associated  with  the 
poignancy  of  that  moment.  ...  At  dinner,  between  the 
intervals  of  silence,  our  talk  was  of  trivial  things.  We  made 
a  mere  pretence  of  eating,  and  I  remember  having  my  atten 
tion  arrested  by  the  sight  of  a  strange,  pitying  expression 
on  the  face  of  Mrs.  Olsen,  who  waited  on  us.  Before  that 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  425 

the  woman  had  been  to  me  a  mere  ministering  automaton. 
But  she  must  have  had  ideas  and  opinions,  this  transported 
Swedish  peasant.  .  .  .  Presently,  having  cleared  the  table, 
she  retired.  .  .  .  The  twilight  deepened  to  dusk,  to  dark 
ness.  The  storm,  having  spent  the  intensity  of  its  passion 
in  those  first  moments  of  heavy  downpour  and  wind,  had 
relaxed  to  a  gentle  rain  that  pattered  on  the  roof,  and  from 
the  stream  came  recurringly  the  dirge  of  the  frogs.  All 
I  could  see  of  Nancy  was  the  dim  outline  of  her  head  and 
shoulders:  she  seemed  fantastically  to  be  escaping  me,  to 
be  fading,  to  be  going;  in  sudden  desperation  I  dropped 
on  my  knees  beside  her,  and  I  felt  her  hands  straying  with 
a  light  yet  agonized  touch,  over  my  head. 

"Do  you  think  I  haven't  suffered,  too?  that  I  don't 
suffer?"  I  heard  her  ask. 

Some  betraying  note  for  which  I  had  hitherto  waited  in 
vain  must  have  pierced  to  my  consciousness,  yet  the  quiver 
of  joy  and  the  swift,  convulsive  movement  that  followed 
it  seemed  one.  Her  strong,  lithe  body  was  straining  in 
my  arms,  her  lips  returning  my  kisses.  .  .  .  Clinging  to 
her  hands,  I  strove  to  summon  my  faculties  of  realization; 
and  I  began  to  speak  in  broken,  endearing  sentences. 

"  It's  stronger  than  we  are  —  stronger  than  anything  else 
in  the  world,"  she  said. 

"  But  you're  not  sorry  ?  "  I  asked. 

"I  don't  want  to  think  —  I  don't  care,"  she  replied.  "I 
only  know  that  I  love  you.  I  wonder  if  you  will  ever  know 
how  much!" 

The  moments  lengthened  into  hours,  and  she  gently  re 
minded  me  that  it  was  late.  The  lights  in  the  little  farm 
houses  near  by  had  long  been  extinguished.  I  pleaded 
to  linger ;  I  wanted  her,  more  of  her,  all  of  her  with  a  fierce 
desire  that  drowned  rational  thought,  and  I  feared  that 
something  might  still  come  between  us,  and  cheat  me  of  her. 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  with  fear  in  her  voice.  "We  shall 
have  to  think  it  out  very  carefully  —  what  we  must  do. 
We  can't  afford  to  make  any  mistakes." 


426  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"We'll  talk  it  all  over  to-morrow,"  I  said. 

With  a  last,  reluctant  embrace  I  finally  left  her,  walked 
blindly  to  where  the  motor  car  was  standing,  and  started 
the  engine.  I  looked  back.  Outlined  in  the  light  of  the 
doorway  I  saw  her  figure  in  what  seemed  an  attitude  of 
supplication.  .  .  . 

I  drove  cityward  through  the  rain,  mechanically  taking 
the  familiar  turns  in  the  road,  barely  missing  a  man  in  a 
buggy  at  a  four-corners.  He  shouted  after  me,  but  the 
world  to  which  he  belonged  didn't  exist.  I  lived  again 
those  moments  that  had  followed  Nancy's  surrender, 
seeking  to  recall  and  fix  in  my  mind  every  word  that  had 
escaped  from  her  lips  —  the  trivial  things  that  to  lovers 
are  so  fraught  with  meaning.  I  lived  it  all  over  again,  as 
I  say,  but  the  reflection  of  it,  though  intensely  emotional, 
differed  from  the  reality  in  that  now  I  was  somewhat  able 
to  regard  the  thing,  to  regard  myself,  objectively ;  to  define 
certain  feelings  that  had  flitted  in  filmy  fashion  through  my 
consciousness,  delicate  shadows  I  recognized  at  the  time 
as  related  to  sadness.  When  she  had  so  amazingly  yielded, 
the  thought  for  which  my  mind  had  been  vaguely  groping 
was  that  the  woman  who  lay  there  in  my  arms,  obscured 
by  the  darkness,  was  not  Nancy  at  all !  It  was  as  if  this 
one  precious  woman  I  had  so  desperately  pursued  had,  in 
the  capture,  lost  her  identity,  had  mysteriously  become 
just  woman,  in  all  her  significance,  yes,  and  helplessness. 
The  particular  had  merged  (inevitably,  I  might  have  known) 
into  the  general:  the  temporary  had  become  the  lasting, 
with  a  chain  of  consequences  vaguely  implied  that  even  in 
my  Jov  gave  me  pause.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
had  a  glimpse  of  what  marriage  might  mean,  —  marriage 
in  a  greater  sense  than  I  had  ever  conceived  it,  a  sort  of 
cosmic  sense,  implying  obligations  transcending  promises 
and  contracts,  calling  for  greatness  of  soul  of  a  kind  I  had 
not  hitherto  imagined.  Was  there  in  me  a  grain  of  doubt 
of  my  ability  to  respond  to  such  a  high  call?  I  began  to 
perceive  that  such  a  union  as  we  contemplated  involved 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  427 

more  obligations  than  one  not  opposed  to  traditional 
views  of  morality.  I  fortified  myself,  however,  —  if  indeed 
I  really  needed  fortification  in  a  mood  prevailingly  trium 
phant  and  exalted,  —  with  the  thought  that  this  love  was 
different,  the  real  thing,  the  love  of  maturity  steeped  in  the 
ideals  of  youth.  Here  was  a  love  for  which  I  must  be  pre 
pared  to  renounce  other  things  on  which  I  set  a  high  value ; 
prepared,  in  case  the  world,  for  some  reason,  should  not 
look  upon  us  with  kindliness.  It  was  curious  that  such 
reflections  as  these  should  have  been  delayed  until  after 
the  achievement  of  my  absorbing  desire,  more  curious  that 
they  should  have  followed  so  closely  on  the  heels  of  it.  The 
affair  had  shifted  suddenly  from  a  basis  of  adventure,  of 
uncertainty,  to  one  of  fact,  of  commitment ;  I  am  exagger 
ating  my  concern  in  order  to  define  it;  I  was  able  to  per 
suade  myself  without  much  difficulty  that  these  little, 
cloudy  currents  in  the  stream  of  my  joy  were  due  to  a  natural 
reaction  from  the  tremendous  strain  of  the  past  weeks,  mere 
morbid  fancies. 

When  at  length  I  reached  my  room  at  the  Club  I  sat 
looking  out  at  the  rain  falling  on  the  shining  pavements 
under  the  arc-lights.  Though  waves  of  heat  caused  by 
some  sudden  recollection  or  impatient  longing  still  ran 
through  my  body,  a  saner  joy  of  anticipation  was  succeeding 
emotional  tumult,  and  I  reflected  that  Nancy  had  been 
right  in  insisting  that  we  walk  circumspectly  in  spite  of 
passion.  After  all,  I  had  outwitted  circumstance,  I  had 
gained  the  prize,  I  could  afford  to  wait  a  little.  We  should 
talk  it  over  to-morrow,  —  no,  to-day.  The  luminous  face 
of  the  city  hall  clock  reminded  me  that  midnight  was  long 
past.  .  .  . 

I  awoke  with  the  consciousness  of  a  new  joy,  suddenly 
to  identify  it  with  Nancy.  She  was  mine !  I  kept  repeating 
it  as  I  dressed ;  summoning  her,  not  as  she  had  lain  in  my 
arms  in  the  darkness  —  though  the  intoxicating  sweetness 
of  that  pervaded  me  —  but  as  she  had  been  before  the 
completeness  of  her  surrender,  dainty,  surrounded  by 


428  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

things  expressing  an  elusive,  uniquely  feminine  personality. 
I  could  afford  to  smile  at  the  weather,  at  the  obsidian 
sky,  at  the  rain  still  falling  persistently;  and  yet,  as  I 
ate  my  breakfast,  I  felt  a  certain  impatience  to  verify  what 
I  knew  was  a  certainty,  and  hurried  to  the  telephone 
booth.  I  resented  the  instrument,  its  possibilities  of  be 
trayal,  her  voice  sounded  so  matter-of-fact  as  she  bade  me 
good  morning  and  deplored  the  rain. 

"I'll  be  out  as  soon  as  I  can  get  away,"  I  said.  "I  have 
a  meeting  at  three,  but  it  should  be  over  at  four."  And 
then  I  added  irresistibly :  "  Nancy,  you're  not  sorry  ?  You 
—  you  still— ?" 

"Yes,  don't  be  foolish,"  I  heard  her  reply,  and  this  time 
the  telephone  did  not  completely  disguise  the  note  for  which 
I  strained.  I  said  something  more,  but  the  circuit  was 
closed.  .  .  . 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  recount  the  details  of  our  inter 
course  during  the  week  that  followed.  There  were  mo 
ments  of  stress  and  strain  when  it  seemed  to  me  that  we 
could  not  wait,  moments  that  strengthened  Nancy's  resolu 
tion  to  leave  immediately  for  the  East:  there  were  other, 
calmer  periods  when  the  wisdom  of  her  going  appealed  to 
me,  since  our  ultimate  union  would  be  hastened  thereby. 
We  overcame  by  degrees  the  distastefulness  of  the  discussion 
of  ways  and  means.  .  .  .  We  spent  an  unforgettable  Sun 
day  among  the  distant  high  hills,  beside  a  little  lake  of  our 
own  discovery,  its  glinting  waters  sapphire  and  chrysoprase. 
A  grassy  wood  road,  at  the  inviting  entrance  to  which  we 
left  the  automobile,  led  down  through  an  undergrowth  of 
laurel  to  a  pebbly  shore,  and  there  we  lunched ;  there  we 
lingered  through  the  long  summer  afternoon,  Nancy  with 
her  back  against  a  tree,  I  with  my  head  in  her  lap  gazing 
up  at  filmy  clouds  drifting  imperceptibly  across  the  sky, 
listening  to  the  droning  notes  of  the  bees,  notes  that  some 
times  rose  in  a  sharp  crescendo,  and  again  were  suddenly 
hushed.  The  smell  of  the  wood-mould  mingled  with  the 
fainter  scents  of  wild  flowers.  She  had  brought  along  a 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  429 

volume  by  a  modern  poet :  the  verses,  as  Nancy  read  them, 
moved  me,  —  they  were  filled  with  a  new  faith  to  which  my 
being  responded,  the  faith  of  the  forth-farer;  not  the  faith 
of  the  anchor,  but  of  the  sail.  I  repeated  some  of  the  lines 
as  indications  of  a  creed  to  which  I  had  long  been  trying 
to  convert  her,  though  lacking  the  expression.  She  had  let 
the  book  fall  on  the  grass.  I  remember  how  she  smiled 
down  at  me  with  the  wisdom  of  the  ages  in  her  eyes,  seek 
ing  my  hand  with  a  gesture  that  was  almost  maternal. 

"You  and  the  poets,"  she  said,  "you  never  grow  up. 
I  suppose  that's  the  reason  why  we  love  you  —  and  these 
wonderful  visions  of  freedom  you  have.  Anyway,  it's  nice 
to  dream,  to  recreate  the  world  as  one  would  like  to  have 
it." 

"  But  that's  what  you  and  I  are  doing,"  I  insisted. 

"  We  think  we're  doing  it  —  or  rather  you  think  so,"  she 
replied.  "And  sometimes,  I  admit  that  you  almost  per 
suade  me  to  think  so.  Never  quite.  What  disturbs  me," 
she  continued,  "is  to  find  you  and  the  poets  founding  your 
new  freedom  on  new  justifications,  discarding  the  old  law 
only  to  make  a  new  one,  —  as  though  we  could  ever  get 
away  from  necessities,  escape  from  disagreeable  things,  ex 
cept  in  dreams.  And  then,  this  delusion  of  believing  that 
we  are  masters  of  our  own  destiny  — "  She  paused  and 
pressed  my  fingers. 

"There  you  go  —  back  to  predestination  !"  I  exclaimed. 

"I  don't  go  back  to  anything,  or  forward  to  anything," 
she  exclaimed.  "Women  are  elemental,  but  I  don't  expect 
you  to  understand  it.  Laws  and  codes  are  foreign  to  us, 
philosophies  and  dreams  may  dazzle  us  for  the  moment, 
but  what  we  feel  underneath  and  what  we  yield  to  are  the 
primal  forces,  the  great  necessities;  when  we  refuse  joys 
it's  because  we  know  these  forces  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  when 
we're  overcome  it's  with  a  full  knowledge  that  there's  a 
price.  You've  talked  a  great  deal,  Hugh,  about  carving 
out  our  future.  I  listened  to  you,  but  I  resisted  you.  It 
wasn't  the  morality  that  was  taught  me  as  a  child  that 


430  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

made  me  resist,  it  was  something  deeper  than  that,  more 
fundamental,  something  I  feel  but  can't  yet  perceive,  and 
yet  shall  perceive  some  day.  It  isn't  that  I'm  clinging  to 
the  hard  and  fast  rules  because  I  fail  to  see  any  others,  it 
isn't  that  I  believe  that  all  people  should  stick  together 
whether  they  are  happily  married  or  not,  but  —  I  must  say 
it  even  now  —  I  have  a  feeling  I  can't  define  that  divorce 
isn't  for  us.  I'm  not  talking  about  right  and  wrong  in  the 
ordinary  sense  —  it's  just  what  I  feel.  I've  ceased  to  think." 

"  Nancy  I "  I  reproached  her. 

"I  can't  help  it  —  I  don't  want  to  be  morbid.  Do  you 
remember  my  asking  you  about  God  ?  —  the  first  day  this 
began?  and  whether  you  had  a  god?  Well,  that's  the 
trouble  with  us  all  to-day,  we  haven't  any  God,  we're  wan 
derers,  drifters.  And  now  it's  just  life  that's  got  hold  of 
us,  my  dear,  and  swept  us  away  together.  That's  our 
justification  —  if  we  needed  one  —  it's  been  too  strong 
for  us."  She  leaned  back  against  the  tree  and  closed  her 
eyes.  "We're  like  chips  in  the  torrent  of  it,  Hugh."  .  .  . 

It  was  not  until  the  shadow  of  the  forest  had  crept  far 
across  the  lake  and  the  darkening  waters  were  still  that 
we  rose  reluctantly  to  put  the  dishes  in  the  tea  basket  and 
start  on  our  homeward  journey.  The  tawny  fires  of  the 
sunset  were  dying  down  behind  us,  the  mist  stealing,  ghost 
like,  into  the  valleys  below;  in  the  sky  a  little  moon 
curled  like  a  freshly  cut  silver  shaving,  that  presently  turned 
to  gold,  the  white  star  above  it  to  fire. 

Where  the  valleys  widened  we  came  to  silent,  decorous 
little  towns  and  villages  where  yellow-lit  windows  gleaming 
through  the  trees  suggested  refuge  and  peace,  while  we 
were  wanderers  in  the  night.  It  was  Nancy's  mood;  and 
now,  in  the  evening's  chill,  it  recurred  to  me  poignantly. 
In  one  of  these  villages  we  passed  a  church,  its  doors  flung 
open;  the  congregation  was  singing  a  familiar  hymn.  I 
slowed  down  the  car;  I  felt  her  shoulder  pressing  against 
my  own,  and  reached  out  my  hand  and  found  hers. 

"Are  you  warm  enough?"  I  asked.  .  .  . 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  431 

We  spoke  but  little  on  that  drive,  we  had  learned  the 
futility  of  words  to  express  the  greater  joys  and  sorrows, 
the  love  that  is  compounded  of  these. 

It  was  late  when  we  turned  in  between  the  white  gates 
and  made  our  way  up  the  little  driveway  to  the  farmhouse. 
I  bade  her  good  night  on  the  steps  of  the  porch. 

"You  do  love  me,  don't  you?"  she  whispered,  clinging  to 
me  with  a  sudden,  straining  passion.  "You  will  love  me, 
always,  no  matter  what  happens?" 

"Why,  of  course,  Nancy,"  I  answered. 

"I  want  to  hear  you  say  it,  'I  love  you,  I  shall  love  you 
always.' " 

I  repeated  it  fervently. 

"No  matter  what  happens?" 

"  No  matter  what  happens.  As  if  I  could  help  it,  Nancy ! 
Why  are  you  so  sad  to-night?" 

"Ah,  Hugh,  it  makes  me  sad  —  I  can't  tell  why.  It  is 
so  great,  it  is  so  terrible,  and  yet  it's  so  sweet  and  beautiful.'* 

She  took  my  face  in  her  hands  and  pressed  a  kiss  against 
my  forehead.  .  .  . 


The  next  day  was  dark.  At  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
the  electric  light  was  still  burning  over  my  desk  when  the 
telephone  rang  and  I  heard  Nancy's  voice. 

"Is  that  you,  Hugh?" 

"Yes." 

"I  have  to  go  East  this  afternoon." 

"Why?"  I  asked.  Her  agitation  had  communicated 
itself  to  me.  "I  thought  you  weren't  going  until  Thurs 
day.  What's  the  matter?" 

"I've  just  had  a  telegram,"  she  said.  "Ham's  been  hurt 
—  I  don't  know  how  badly  —  he  was  thrown  from  a  polo 
pony  this  morning  at  Narragansett,  in  practice,  and  they're 
taking  him  to  Boston  to  a  private  hospital.  The  telegram's 
from  Johnny  Shephard.  I'll  be  at  the  house  in  town  at  four." 

Filled  with  forebodings  I  tried  in  vain  to  suppress  I 


432  A  FAR  COUNTRY' 

dropped  the  work  I  was  doing  and  got  up  and  paced  the 
room,  pausing  now  and  again  to  gaze  out  of  the  window  at 
the  wet  roofs  and  the  grey  skies.  I  was  aghast  at  the  idea 
of  her  going  to  Ham  now  —  even  though  he  were  hurt  — 
badly  hurt ;  and  yet  I  tried  to  think  it  was  natural,  that  it 
was  fine  of  her  to  respond  to  such  a  call.  And  she  couldn't 
very  well  refuse  his  summons.  But  it  was  not  the  news  of 
her  husband's  accident  that  inspired  the  greater  fear,  which 
was  quelled  and  soothed  only  to  rise  again  when  I  recalled 
the  note  I  had  heard  in  her  voice,  a  note  eloquent  of  tragedy 
—  of  tragedy  she  had  foreseen.  At  length,  unable  to  remain 
where  I  was  any  longer,  I  descended  to  the  street  and  walked 
uptown  in  the  rain.  The  Durrett  house  was  closed,  the 
blinds  of  its  many  windows  drawn,  but  Nancy  was  watch 
ing  for  me  and  opened  the  door.  So  used  had  I  grown  to 
seeing  her  in  the  simple  linen  dresses  she  had  worn  in  the 
country,  a  costume  associated  with  exclusive  possession,  that 
the  sight  of  her  travelling  suit  and  hat  renewed  in  me  an 
agony  of  apprehension.  The  unforeseen  event  seemed  to 
have  transformed  her  once  more.  Her  veil  was  drawn  up, 
her  face  was  pale,  in  her  eyes  were  traces  of  tears. 

"You're  going?"  I  asked,  as  I  took  her  hands. 

"Hugh,  I  have  to  go." 

She  led  me  through  the  dark,  shrouded  drawing  room  into 
the  little  salon  where  the  windows  were  open  on  the  silent 
city-garden.  I  took  her  in  my  arms ;  she  did  not  resist,  as 
I  half  expected,  but  clung  to  me  with  what  seemed  desper 
ation. 

"  I  have  to  go,  dear  —  you  won't  make  it  too  hard  for  me ! 
It's  only  —  ordinary  decency,  and  there's  no  one  else  to  go 
to  him." 

She  drew  me  to  the  sofa,  her  eyes  beseeching  me. 

"Listen,  dear,  I  want  you  to  see  it  as  I  see  it.  I  know  that 
you  will,  that  you  do.  I  should  never  be  able  to  forgive 
myself  if  I  stayed  away  now,  I  —  neither  of  us  could  ever 
be  happy  about  it.  You  do  see,  don't  you?"  she  implored. 

"Yes,"  I  admitted  agitatedly. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  433 

Her  grasp  on  my  hand  tightened. 

"I  knew  you  would.  But  it  makes  me  happier  to  hear 
you  say  it." 

We  sat  for  a  moment  in  helpless  silence,  gazing  at  one 
another.  Slowly  her  eyes  had  filled. 

"Have  you  heard  anything  more?"  I  managed  to  ask. 

She  drew  a  telegram  from  her  bag,  as  though  the  move 
ment  were  a  relief. 

"This  is  from  the  doctor  in  Boston  —  his  name  is  Ma- 
gruder.  They  have  got  Ham  there,  it  seems.  A  horse  kicked 
him  in  the  head,  after  he  fell,  —  he  had  just  recovered 
consciousness." 

I  took  the  telegram.  The  words  seemed  meaningless, 
all  save  those  of  the  last  sentence.  "The  situation  is  se 
rious,  but  by  no  means  hopeless."  Nancy  had  not  spoken 
of  that.  The  ignorant  cruelty  of  its  convention !  The 
man  must  have  known  what  Hambleton  Durrett  was! 
Nancy  read  my  thoughts,  and  took  the  paper  from  my  hand. 

"Hugh,  dear,  if  it's  hard  for  you,  try  to  understand  that 
it's  terrible  for  me  to  think  that  he  has  any  claim  at  all. 
I  realize  now,  as  I  never  did  before,  how  wicked  it  was  in 
me  to  marry  him.  I  hate  him,  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of 
going  near  him." 

She  fell  into  wild  weeping.  I  tried  to  comfort  her,  who 
could  not  comfort  myself ;  I  don't  remember  my  inadequate 
words.  We  were  overwhelmed,  obliterated  by  the  sense  of 
calamity.  ...  It  was  she  who  checked  herself  at  last  by 
an  effort  that  was  almost  hysterical. 

"  I  mustn't  yield  to  it ! "  she  said.  "  It's  time  to  leave  — 
and  the  train  goes  at  six.  No,  you  mustn't  come  to  the 
station,  Hugh  —  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  it.  I'll  send 
you  a  telegram."  She  rose.  "You  must  go  now  —  you 
must." 

"You'll  come  back  to  me?"  I  demanded  thickly,  as  I 
held  her. 

"Hugh,  I  am  yours,  now  and  always.  How  can  you 
doubt  it?" 

2F 


434  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

At  last  I  released  her,  when  she  had  begged  me  again. 
And  I  found  myself  a  little  later  walking  past  the  familiar, 
empty  houses  of  those  streets.  .  .  . 


•  The  front  pages  of  the  evening  newspapers  announced 
the  accident  to  Hambleton  Durrett,  and  added  that  Mrs. 
Durrett,  who  had  been  lingering  in  the  city,  had  gone  to  her 
husband's  bedside.  The  morning  papers  contained  more  of 
biography  and  ancestry,  but  had  little  to  add  to  the  bulletin ; 
and  there  was  no  lack  of  speculation  at  the  Club  and  else 
where  as  to  Ham's  ability  to  rally  from  such  a  shock.  I 
could  not  bear  to  listen  to  these  comments :  they  were  vio 
lently  distasteful  to  me.  The  unforeseen  accident  and 
Nancy's  sudden  departure  had  thrown  my  life  completely 
out  of  gear :  I  could  not  attend  to  business,  I  dared  not  go 
away  lest  the  news  from  Nancy  be  delayed.  I  spent  the 
hours  in  an  exhausting  mental  state  that  alternated  between 
hope  and  fear,  a  state  of  unmitigated,  intense  desire,  of  balked 
realization,  sometimes  heightening  into  that  sheer  terror 
I  had  felt  when  I  had  detected  over  the  telephone  that  note 
in  her  voice  that  seemed  of  despair.  Had  she  had  a  presen 
timent,  all  along,  that  something  would  occur  to  separate 
us  ?  As  I  went  back  over  the  hours  we  had  passed  together 
since  she  had  acknowledged  her  love,  in  spite  of  myself  the 
conviction  grew  on  me  that  she  had  never  believed  in  the 
reality  of  our  future.  Indeed,  she  had  expressed  her  disbe 
lief  in  words.  Had  she  been  looking  all  along  for  a  sign 
—  a  sign  of  wrath  ?  And  would  she  accept  this  accident  of 
Ham's  as  such? 

Retrospection  left  me  trembling  and  almost  sick. 

It  was  not  until  the  second  morning  after  her  departure 
that  I  received  a  telegram  giving  the  name  of  her  Boston 
hotel,  and  saying  that  there  was  to  be  a  consultation  that 
day,  and  as  soon  as  it  had  taken  place  she  would  write. 
Such  consolation  as  I  could  gather  from  it  was  derived  from 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  435 

four  words  at  the  end,  —  she  missed  me  dreadfully.  Some 
tremor  of  pity  for  her  entered  into  my  consciousness,  without 
mitigating  greatly  the  wildness  of  my  resentment,  of  my 
forebodings. 

I  could  bear  no  longer  the  city,  the  Club,  the  office,  the 
daily  contact  with  my  associates  and  clients.  Six  hours 
distant,  near  Rossiter,  was  a  small  resort  in  the  mountains 
of  which  I  had  heard.  I  telegraphed  Nancy  to  address  me 
there,  notified  the  office,  packed  my  bag,  and  waited  impa 
tiently  for  midday,  when  I  boarded  the  train.  At  seven  I 
reached  a  little  station  where  a  stage  was  waiting  to  take 
me  to  Calender's  Mill. 

It  was  not  until  morning  that  I  beheld  my  retreat,  when 
little  wisps  of  vapour  were  straying  over  the  surface  of  the 
lake,  and  the  steep  green  slopes  that  rose  out  of  the  water 
on  the  western  side  were  still  in  shadow.  The  hotel,  a  much 
overgrown  and  altered  farm-house,  stood,  surrounded  by 
great  trees,  in  an  ancient  clearing  that  sloped  gently  to  the 
water's  edge,  where  an  old-fashioned,  octagonal  summer- 
house  overlooked  a  landing  for  rowboats.  The  resort, 
indeed,  was  a  survival  of  simpler  times.  .  .  . 

In  spite  of  the  thirty-odd  guests,  people  of  very  moder 
ate  incomes  who  knew  the  place  and  had  come  here  year 
after  year,  I  was  as  much  alone  as  if  I  had  been  the  only 
sojourner.  The  place  was  so  remote,  so  peaceful  in  con 
trast  to  the  city  I  had  left,  which  had  become  intolerable. 
And  at  night,  during  hours  of  wakefulness,  the  music  of  the 
waters  falling  over  the  dam  was  soothing.  I  used  to  walk 
down  there  and  sit  on  the  stones  of  the  ruined  mill ;  or  climb 
to  the  crests  on  the  far  side  of  the  pond  to  gaze  for  hours 
westward  where  the  green  billows  of  the  Alleghenies  lost 
themselves  in  the  haze.  I  had  discovered  a  new  country; 
here,  when  our  trials  should  be  over,  I  would  bring  Nancy,  — 
and  I  found  distraction  in  choosing  sites  for  a  bungalow. 
In  my  soul  hope  flowered  with  little  watering.  Uncertain 
news  was  good  news.  After  two  days  of  an  impatience  all 
but  intolerable,  her  first  letter  arrived,  I  learned  that  the 


436  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

specialists  had  not  been  able  to  make  a  diagnosis,  and  I  be 
gan  to  take  heart  again.  At  times,  she  said,  Ham  was 
delirious  and  difficult  to  manage;  at  other  times  he  sank 
into  a  condition  of  coma ;  and  again  he  seemed  to  know  her 
and  Ralph,  who  had  come  up  from  Southampton,  where  he 
had  been  spending  the  summer.  One  doctor  thought  that 
Ham's  remarkable  vitality  would  pull  him  through,  in  spite 
of  what  his  life  had  been.  The  shock  —  as  might  have  been 
surmised  —  had  affected  the  brain.  .  .  .  The  letters  that 
followed  contained  no  additional  news;  she  did  not  dwell 
on  the  depressing  reactions  inevitable  from  the  situation  in 
which  she  found  herself  —  one  so  much  worse  than  mine; 
she  expressed  a  continual  longing  for  me;  and  yet  I  had 
trouble  to  convince  myself  that  they  did  not  lack  the  note 
of  reassurance  for  which  I  strained  as  I  eagerly  scanned  them 
—  of  reassurance  that  she  had  no  intention  of  permitting  her 
husband's  condition  to  interfere  with  that  ultimate  happi 
ness  on  which  it  seemed  my  existence  depended.  I  tried 
to  account  for  the  absence  of  this  note  by  reflecting  that  the 
letters  were  of  necessity  brief,  hurriedly  scratched  off  at  odd 
moments;  and  a  natural  delicacy  would  prevent  her  from 
referring  to  our  future  at  such  a  time.  They  recorded  no 
change  in  Ham's  condition  save  that  the  periods  of  coma  had 
ceased.  The  doctors  were  silent,  awaiting  the  arrival  in 
this  country  of  a  certain  New  York  specialist  who  was 
abroad.  She  spent  most  of  her  days  at  the  hospital,  return 
ing  to  the  hotel  at  night  exhausted :  the  people  she  knew  in 
the  various  resorts  around  Boston  had  been  most  kind,  send 
ing  her  flowers,  and  calling  when  in  town  to  inquire.  At 
length  came  the  news  that  the  New  York  doctor  was  home 
again,  and  coming  to  Boston.  In  that  letter  was  a  sentence 
which  rang  like  a  cry  in  my  ears :  "Oh,  Hugh,  I  think  these 
doctors  know  now  what  the  trouble  is,  I  think  I  know.  They 
are  only  waiting  for  Dr.  Jameson  to  confirm  it."  .  .  . 

It  was  always  an  effort  for  me  to  control  my  impatience 
after  the  first  rattling  was  heard  in  the  morning  of  the  stage 
that  brought  the  mail,  and  I  avoided  the  waiting  group  in 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  437 

front  of  the  honeycombed  partition  of  boxes  beside  the 
"office."  On  the  particular  morning  of  which  I  am  now 
writing  the  proprietor  himself  handed  me  a  letter  of  ominous 
thickness  which  I  took  with  me  down  to  the  borders  of 
the  lake  before  tearing  open  the  flap.  In  spite  of  the 
calmness  and  restraint  of  the  first  lines,  because  of  them, 
I  felt  creeping  over  me  an  unnerving  sensation  I  knew 
for  dread.  .  .  . 

"Hugh,  the  New  York  doctor  has  been  here.  It  is  as  I 
have  feared  for  some  weeks,  but  I  couldn't  tell  you  until  I 
was  sure.  Ham  is  not  exactly  insane,  but  he  is  childish. 
Sometimes  I  think  that  is  even  worse.  I  have  had  a  talk 
with  Dr.  Jameson,  who  has  simply  confirmed  the  opinion 
which  the  other  physicians  have  gradually  been  forming. 
The  accident  has  precipitated  a  kind  of  mental  degeneration, 
but  his  health,  otherwise,  will  not  be  greatly  affected. 

"Jameson  was  kind,  but  very  frank,  for  which  I  was 
grateful.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  it  would  have  been 
better  if  the  accident  had  been  fatal.  Ham  won't  be  help 
less,  physically.  Of  course  he  won't  be  able  to  play  polo, 
or  take  much  active  exercise.  If  he  were  to  be'  helpless,  I 
could  feel  that  I  might  be  of  some  use,  at  least  of  more  use. 
He  knows  his  friends.  Some  of  them  have  been  here  to  see 
him,  and  he  talks  quite  rationally  with  them,  with  Ralph, 
with  me,  only  once  in  a  while  he  says  something  silly.  It 
seems  odd  to  write  that  he  is  not  responsible,  since  he  never 
has  been,  —  his  condition  is  so  queer  that  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
describe  it.  The  other  morning,  before  I  arrived  from  the 
hotel  and  when  the  nurse  was  downstairs,  he  left  the  hospi 
tal,  and  we  found  him  several  blocks  along  Commonwealth 
Avenue,  seated  on  a  bench,  without  a  hat  —  he  was  annoyed 
that  he  had  forgotten  it,  and  quite  sensible  otherwise.  We 
began  by  taking  him  out  every  morning  in  an  automobile. 
To-day  he  had  a  walk  with  Ralph,  and  insisted  on  going  into 
a  club  here,  to  which  they  both  belong.  Two  or  three  men 
were  there  whom  they  knew,  and  he  talked  to  them  about 
his  fall  from  the  pony  and  told  them  just  how  it  happened. 


438  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

At  such  times  only  a  close  observer  can  tell  from  his  manner 
that  everything  is  not  right. 

"Ralph,  who  always  could  manage  him,  prevented  his 
taking  anything  to  drink.  He  depends  upon  Ralph,  and  it 
will  be  harder  for  me  when  he  is  not  with  us.  His  attitude 
towards  me  is  just  about  what  it  has  always  been.  I  try  to 
amuse  him  by  reading  the  newspapers  and  with  games ;  we 
have  a  chess-board.  At  times  he  seems  grateful,  and  then 
he  will  suddenly  grow  tired  and  hard  to  control.  Once  or 
twice  I  have  had  to  call  in  Dr.  Magruder,  who  owns  the 
hospital. 

"It  has  been  terribly  hard  for  me  to  write  all  this,  but  I 
had  to  do  it,  in  order  that  you  might  understand  the  situa 
tion  completely.  Hugh  dear,  I  simply  can't  leave  him. 
This  has  been  becoming  clearer  and  clearer  to  me  all  these 
weeks,  but  it  breaks  my  heart  to  have  to  write  it.  I  have 
struggled  against  it,  I  have  lain  awake  nights  trying  to  find 
justification  for  going  to  you,  but  it  is  stronger  than  I.  I 
am  afraid  of  it  —  I  suppose  that's  the  truth.  Even  in  those 
unforgettable  days  at  the  farm  I  was  afraid  of  it,  although 
I  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  be.  Call  it  what  you  like, 
say  that  I  am  weak.  I  am  willing  to  acknowledge  that  it  is 
weakness.  I  wish  no  credit  for  it,  it  gives  me  no  glow,  the 
thought  of  it  makes  my  heart  sick.  I'm  not  big  enough  — 
I  suppose  that's  the  real  truth.  I  once  might  have  been; 
but  I'm  not  now,  —  the  years  of  the  life  I  chose  have  made 
a  coward  of  me.  It's  not  a  question  of  morals  or  duty  — 
it's  simply  that  I  can't  take  the  thing  for  which  my  soul 
craves.  It's  too  late.  If  I  believed  in  prayer  I'd  pray 
that  you  might  pity  and  forgive  me.  I  really  can't  ex 
pect  you  to  understand  what  I  can't  myself  explain.  Oh, 
I  need  pity  —  and  I  pity  you,  my  dear.  I  can  only  hope 
that  you  will  not  suffer  as  I  shall,  that  you  will  find  relief  — 
a  way  to  work  out  your  life.  But  I  will  not  change  my  de 
cision,  I  cannot  change  it.  Don't  come  on,  don't  attempt 
to  see  me  now.  I  can't  stand  any  more  than  I  am  stand 
ing,  I  should  lose  my  mind." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  439 

Here  the  letter  was  blotted,  and  some  words  scratched 
out.  I  was  unable  to  reconstruct  them. 

"Ralph  and  I,"  she  proceeded  irrelevantly,  "have  got 
Ham  to  agree  to  go  to  Buzzard's  Bay,  and  we  have  taken  a 
house  near  Wareham.  Write  and  tell  me  that  you  forgive 
and  pity  me.  I  love  you  even  more,  if  such  a  thing  is  pos 
sible,  than  I  have  ever  loved  you.  This  is  my  only  comfort 
and  compensation,  that  I  have  had  and  have  been  able  to 
feel  such  a  love,  and  I  know  I  shall  always  feel  it.  —  Nancy.'* 

The  first  effect  of  this  letter  was  a  paralyzing  one.  I  was 
unable  to  realize  or  believe  the  thing  that  had  happened 
to  me,  and  I  sat  stupidly  holding  the  sheet  in  my  hand  until 
I  heard  voices  along  the  path,  and  then  I  fled  instinctively, 
like  an  animal,  to  hide  my  injury  from  any  persons  I  might 
meet.  I  wandered  down  the  shore  of  the  lake,  striking  at 
length  into  the  woods,  seeking  some  inviolable  shelter ;  nor 
was  I  conscious  of  physical  effort  until  I  found  myself  pant 
ing  near  the  crest  of  the  ridge  where  there  was  a  pasture, 
which  some  ancient  glacier  had  strewn  with  great  boulders. 
Beside  one  of  these  I  sank.  Heralded  by  the  deep  tones  of 
bells,  two  steers  appeared  above  the  shoulder  of  a  hill  and 
stood  staring  at  me  with  bovine  curiosity,  and  fell  to  grazing 
again.  A  fleet  of  white  clouds,  like  ships  pressed  with  sail, 
hurried  across  the  sky  as  though  racing  for  some  determined 
port;  and  the  shadows  they  cast  along  the  hillsides  accen 
tuated  the  high  brightness  of  the  day,  emphasized  the  vivid 
and  hateful  beauty  of  the  landscape.  My  numbness  began 
to  be  penetrated  by  shooting  pains,  and  I  grasped  little  by 
little  the  fulness  of  my  calamity,  until  I  was  in  the  state  of 
wild  rebellion  of  one  whom  life  for  the  first  time  has  foiled 
in  a  supreme  desire.  There  was  no  fate  about  this  thing, 
it  was  just  an  absurd  accident.  The  operation  of  the  laws 
of  nature  had  sent  a  man  to  the  ground :  another  combination 
of  circumstances  would  have  killed  him,  still  another,  and 
he  would  have  arisen  unhurt.  But  because  of  this  partic 
ular  combination  my  happiness  was  ruined,  and  Nancy's ! 

She  had  not  expected  me  to  understand.    Well,  I  didn't 


440  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

understand,  I  had  no  pity,  in  that  hour  I  felt  a  resentment 
almost  amounting  to  hate;  I  could  see  only  unreasoning 
superstition  in  the  woman  I  wanted  above  everything  in 
the  world.  Women  of  other  days  had  indeed  renounced 
great  loves :  the  thing  was  not  unheard  of.  But  that  this 
should  happen  in  these  times  —  and  to  me !  It  was  un 
thinkable  that  Nancy  of  all  women  shouldn't  be  emancipated 
from  the  thralls  of  religious  inhibition !  And  if  it  wasn't 
"conscience,"  what  was  it?  Was  it,  as  she  said,  weakness, 
lack  of  courage  to  take  life  when  it  was  offered  her  ?  .  .  .  I 
was  suddenly  filled  with  the  fever  of  composing  arguments 
to  change  a  decision  that  appeared  to  me  to  be  the  re 
sult  of  a  monstrous  caprice  and  delusion ;  writing  them  out, 
as  they  occurred  to  me,  in  snatches  on  the  backs  of  en 
velopes —  her  envelopes.  Then  I  proceeded  to  make  the 
draft  of  a  letter,  the  effort  required  for  composition  easing 
me  until  the  draft  was  finished ;  when  I  started  for  the  hotel, 
climbing  fences,  leaping  streams,  making  my  way  across 
rock  faces  and  through  woods;  halting  now  and  then  as 
some  reenforcing  argument  occurred  to  me  to  write  it  into 
my  draft  at  the  proper  place  until  the  sheets  were  interlined 
and  blurred  and  almost  illegible.  It  was  already  three 
o'clock  when  I  reached  my  room,  and  the  mail  left  at  four. 
I  began  to  copy  and  revise  my  scrawl,  glancing  from  time 
to  time  at  my  watch,  which  I  had  laid  on  the  table.  Hur 
riedly  washing  my  face  and  brushing  my  hair,  I  arrived  down- 
Stan's  just  as  the  stage  was  leaving.  .  .  . 

After  the  letter  had  gone  still  other  arguments  I  might 
have  added  began  to  occur  to  me,  and  I  regretted  that  I 
had  not  softened  some  of  the  things  I  wrote  and  made  others 
more  emphatic.  In  places  argument  had  degenerated  into 
abject  entreaty.  Never  had  my  desire  been  so  importunate 
as  now,  when  I  was  in  continual  terror  of  losing  her.  Nor 
could  I  see  how  I  was  to  live  without  her,  life  lacking  a 
motive  being  incomprehensible:  yet  the  fire  of  optimism 
in  me,  though  died  down  to  ashes,  would  not  be  extinguished. 
At  moments  it  flared  up  into  what  almost  amounted  to  a 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  441 

conviction  that  she  could  not  resist  my  appeal.  I  had  threat 
ened  to  go  to  her,  and  more  than  once  I  started  packing.  .  .  . 

Three  days  later  I  received  a  brief  note  in  which  she  man 
aged  to  convey  to  me,  though  tenderly  and  compassionately, 
that  her  decision  was  unalterable.  If  I  came  on,  she  would 
refuse  to  see  me.  I  took  the  afternoon  stage  and  went  back 
to  the  city,  to  plunge  into  affairs  again ;  but  for  weeks  my 
torture  was  so  acute  that  it  gives  me  pain  to  recall  it,  to 
dwell  upon  it  to-day.  .  .  .  And  yet,  amazing  as  it  may 
seem,  there  came  a  tune  when  hope  began  to  dawn  again 
out  of  my  despair.  Perhaps  my  life  had  not  been  utterly 
shattered,  after  all :  perhaps  Ham  Durrett  would  get  well : 
such  things  happened,  and  Nancy  would  no  longer  have  an 
excuse  for  continuing  to  refuse  me.  Little  by  little  my  anger 
at  what  I  had  now  become  convinced  was  her  weakness 
cooled,  and  though  paradoxically  I  had  continued  to  love 
her  in  spite  of  the  torture  for  which  she  was  responsible,  in 
spite  of  the  resentment  I  felt,  I  melted  toward  her.  True 
to  my  habit  of  reliance  on  miracles,  I  tried  to  reconcile  myself 
to  a  period  of  waiting. 

Nevertheless  I  was  faintly  aware  —  consequent  upon  if 
not  as  a  result  of  this  tremendous  experience  —  of  some 
change  within  me.  It  was  not  only  that  I  felt  at  times  a 
novel  sense  of  uneasiness  at  being  a  prey  to  accidents,  sub 
ject  to  ravages  of  feeling ;  the  unity  of  mind  that  had  hitherto 
enabled  me  to  press  forward  continuously  toward  a  concrete 
goal  showed  signs  of  breaking  up:  the  goal  had  lost  its 
desirability.  I  seemed  oddly  to  be  relapsing  into  the  states 
of  questioning  that  had  characterized  my  earlier  years. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  I  actually 
began  to  speculate  on  the  possible  existence  of  a  realm  where 
the  soul  might  find  a  refuge  from  the  bufferings  of  life, 
from  which  the  philosophy  of  prosperity  was  powerless  to 
save  it.  . 


XXIV 


IT  was  impossible,  of  course,  that  my  friends  should  have 
failed  to  perceive  the  state  of  disorganization  I  was  in,  and 
some  of  them  at  least  must  have  guessed  its  cause.  Dick 
inson,  on  his  return  from  Maine,  at  once  begged  me  to  go 
away.  I  rather  congratulated  myself  that  Tom  had  chosen 
these  months  for  a  long-delayed  vacation  in  Canada.  His 
passion  for  fishing  still  persisted. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  I  have  noted,  that  I  had  lost  a  certain 
zest  for  results,  to  keep  busy  seemed  to  be  the  only  way  to 
relieve  my  mind  of  an  otherwise  intolerable  pressure :  and 
I  worked  sometimes  far  into  the  evening.  In  the  back 
ground  of  my  thoughts  lay  the  necessity  of  coming  to  a 
decision  on  the  question  of  the  senatorship;  several  times 
Dickinson  and  Gorse  had  spoken  of  it,  and  I  was  beginning 
to  get  letters  from  influential  men  in  other  parts  of  the  state. 
They  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  there  was  no  ques 
tion  of  my  refusing.  The  time  came  when  I  had  grown  able 
to  consider  the  matter  with  a  degree  of  calmness.  What 
struck  me  first,  when  I  began  to  debate  upon  it,  was  that  the 
senatorship  offered  a  new  and  possibly  higher  field  for  my 
energies,  while  at  the  same  time  the  office  would  be  a  logical 
continuation  of  a  signal  legal  career.  I  was  now  unable  to 
deny  that  I  no  longer  felt  any  exhilaration  at  the  prospect 
of  future  legal  conquests  similar  to  those  of  the  past;  but 
once  in  the  Senate,  I  might  regain  something  of  that  intense 
conviction  of  fighting  for  a  just  and  sound  cause  with  which 
Theodore  Watling  had  once  animated  me :  fighting  there, 
in  the  Capitol  at  Washington,  would  be  different ;  no  stigma 
of  personal  gain  attached  to  it ;  it  offered  a  nearer  approach 

442 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  443 

to  the  ideal  I  had  once  more  begun  to  seek,  held  out  hopes  of 
a  renewal  of  my  unity  of  mind.  Mr.  Watling  had  declared 
that  there  was  something  to  fight  for ;  I  had  even  glimpsed 
that  something,  but  I  had  to  confess  that  for  some  years 
I  had  not  been  consciously  fighting  for  it.  I  needed  some 
thing  to  fight  for. 

There  was  the  necessity,  however,  of  renewing  my  cal 
culations.  If  Hambleton  Durrett  should  recover,  even  dur 
ing  the  ensuing  year,  and  if  Nancy  relented  it  would  not 
be  possible  for  us  to  be  divorced  and  married  for  some  tune. 
I  still  clung  tenaciously  to  the  belief  that  there  were  no 
relationships  wholly  unaffected  by  worldly  triumphs,  and 
as  Senator  I  should  have  strengthened  my  position.  It 
did  not  strike  me  —  even  after  all  my  experience  —  that 
such  a  course  as  I  now  contemplated  had  a  parallel  in 
the  one  that  I  had  pursued  in  regard  to  her  when  I  was 
young. 

It  seemed  fitting  that  Theodore  Watling  should  be  the 
first  to  know  of  my  decision.  I  went  to  Washington  to 
meet  him.  It  pained  me  to  see  him  looking  more  worn, 
but  he  was  still  as  cheerful,  as  mentally  vigorous  as  ever, 
and  I  perceived  that  he  did  not  wish  to  dwell  upon  his  ill 
ness.  I  did  venture  to  expostulate  with  him  on  the  risk 
he  must  be  running  in  serving  out  his  term.  We  were 
sitting  in  the  dining  room  of  his  house. 

"We've  only  one  life  to  live,  Hugh,"  he  answered,  smiling 
at  me,  "  and  we  might  as  well  get  all  out  of  it  we  can.  A  few 
years  more  or  less  doesn't  make  much  difference  —  and  I 
ought  to  be  satisfied.  I'd  resign  now,  to  please  my  wife, 
to  please  my  friends,  but  we  can't  trust  this  governor  to 
appoint  a  safe  man.  How  little  we  suspected  when  we  elected 
him  that  he'd  become  infected.  You  never  can  tell,  in  these 
days,  can  you  ?  " 

It  was  the  note  of  devotion  to  his  cause  that  I  had  come 
to  hear :  I  felt  it  renewing  me,  as  I  had  hoped.  The  threat 
of  disease,  the  louder  clamourings  of  the  leaders  of  the  mob 
had  not  sufficed  to  dismay  him  —  though  he  admitted  more 


444  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

concern  over  these.  My  sympathy  and  affection  were 
mingled  with  the  admiration  he  never  failed  to  inspire. 

"But  you,  Hugh,"  he  said  concernedly,  "you're  not  look 
ing  very  well,  my  son.  You  must  manage  to  take  a  good 
rest  before  coming  here  —  before  the  campaign  you'll  have 
to  go  through.  We  can't  afford  to  have  anything  happen 
to  you  —  you're  too  young." 

I  wondered  whether  he  had  heard  anything  .  .  .  He 
spoke  to  me  again  about  the  work  to  be  done,  the  work  he 
looked  to  me  to  carry  on. 

"We'll  have  to  watch  for  our  opportunity,"  he  said,  "and 
when  it  comes  we  can  handle  this  new  movement  not  by 
crushing  it,  but  by  guiding  it.  I've  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  there  is  a  true  instinct  in  it,  that  there  are  certain  things 
we  have  done  which  have  been  mistakes,  and  which  we 
can't  do  any  more.  But  as  for  this  theory  that  all  wisdom 
resides  in  the  people,  it's  buncombe.  What  we  have  to  do  is 
to  work  out  a  practical  programme." 

His  confidence  in  me  had  not  diminished.  It  helped  to 
restore  confidence  in  myself. 

The  weather  was  cool  and  bracing  for  September,  and 
as  we  drove  in  a  motor  through  the  beautiful  avenues  of  the 
city  he  pointed  out  a  house  for  me  on  one  of  the  circles, 
one  of  those  distinguished  residences,  instances  of  a  nascent 
good  taste,  that  are  helping  to  redeem  the  polyglot  aspect 
of  our  national  capital.  Mr.  Watling  spoke  —  rather 
tactfully,  I  thought  —  of  Maude  and  the  children,  and 
ventured  the  surmise  that  they  would  be  returning  in  a 
few  months.  I  interpreted  this,  indeed,  as  in  rather  the 
nature  of  a  kindly  hint  that  such  a  procedure  would  be 
wise  in  view  of  the  larger  life  now  dawning  for  me,  but  I 
made  no  comment.  ...  He  even  sympathized  with  Nancy 
Durrett. 

"She  did  the  right  thing,  Hugh,"  he  said,  with  the  ad 
mirable  casual  manner  he  possessed  of  treating  subjects 
which  he  knew  to  be  delicate.  "Nancy's  a  fine  woman. 
Poor  devil ! "  This  in  reference  to  Ham.  .  . 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  445 

Mr.  Watling  reassured  me  on  the  subject  of  his  own 
trouble,  maintaining  that  he  had  many  years  left  if  he  took 
care.  He  drove  me  to  the  station.  I  travelled  homeward 
somewhat  lifted  out  of  myself  by  this  visit  to  him;  with 
some  feeling  of  spaciousness  derived  from  Washington 
itself,  with  its  dignified  Presidential  Mansion  among  the 
trees,  its  granite  shaft  drawing  the  eye  upward,  with  its 
winged  Capitol  serene  upon  the  hill.  Should  we  deliver 
these  heirlooms  to  the  mob?  Surely  Democracy  meant 
more  than  that ! 


All  this  time  I  had  been  receiving,  at  intervals,  letters 
from  Maude  and  the  children.  Maude's  were  the  letters 
of  a  friend,  and  I  found  it  easy  to  convince  myself  that 
their  tone  was  genuine,  that  the  separation  had  brought 
contentment  to  her;  and  those  independent  and  self-suffi 
cient  elements  in  her  character  I  admired  now  rather  than 
deplored.  At  Etretat,  which  she  found  much  to  her  taste, 
she  was  living  quietly,  but  making  friends  with  some  Amer 
ican  ':and  English,  and  one  French  family  of  the  same  name, 
Buffon,  as  the  great  naturalist.  The  father  was  a  retired 
silk  manufacturer ;  they  now  resided  in  Paris,  and  had  been 
very  kind  in  helping  her  to  get  an  apartment  in  that  city 
for  the  winter.  She  had  chosen  one  on  the  Avenue  Kleber, 
not  far  from  the  Arc.  It  is  interesting,  after  her  arraignment 
of  me,  that  she  should  have  taken  such  pains  to  record  their 
daily  life  for  my  benefit  in  her  clear,  conscientious  hand 
writing.  I  beheld  Biddy,  her  dresses  tucked  above  slim 
little  knees,  playing  in  the  sand  on  the  beach,  her  hair  flying 
in  the  wind  and  lighted  by  the  sun  which  gave  sparkle  to 
the  sea.  I  saw  Maude  herself  in  her  beach  chair,  a  book 
lying  in  her  lap,  its  pages  whipped  by  the  breeze.  And 
there  was  Moreton,  who  must  be  proving  something  of  a 
handful,  since  he  had  fought  with  the  French  boys  on  the 
beach  and  thrown  a  "rock"  through  the  windows  of  the 
Buffon  family.  I  remember  one  of  his  letters  —  made 


446  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

perfect  after  much  correcting  and  scratching,  —  in  which 
he  denounced  both  France  and  the  French,  and  appealed 
to  me  to  come  over  at  once  to  take  him  home.  Maude 
had  enclosed  it  without  comment.  This  letter  had  not 
been  written  under  duress,  as  most  of  his  were. 

Matthew's  letters  —  he  wrote  faithfully  once  a  week  —  I 
kept  in  a  little  pile  by  themselves  and  sometimes  reread 
them.  I  wondered  whether  it  were  because  of  the  fact 
that  I  was  his  father  —  though  a  most  inadequate  one  — 
that  I  thought  them  somewhat  unusual.  He  had  learned 
French  —  Maude  wrote  —  with  remarkable  ease.  I  was 
particularly  struck  in  these  letters  with  the  boy's  power 
of  observation,  with  his  facile  use  of  language,  with  the 
vivid  simplicity  of  his  descriptions  of  the  life  around  him, 
of  his  experiences  at  school.  The  letters  were  thoughtful 
—  not  dashed  off  in  a  hurry;  they  gave  evidence  in  every 
line  of  the  delicacy  of  feeling  that  was,  I  think,  his  most 
appealing  quality,  and  I  put  them  down  with  the  impression 
strong  on  me  that  he,  too,  longed  to  return  home,  but  would 
not  say  so.  There  was  a  certain  pathos  in  this  youthful 
restraint  that  never  failed  to  touch  me,  even  in  those  times 
when  I  had  been  most  obsessed  with  love  and  passion.  .  .  . 
The  curious  effect  of  these  letters  was  that  of  knowing  more 
than  they  expressed.  He  missed  me,  he  wished  to  know 
when  I  was  coming  over.  And  I  was  sometimes  at  a  loss 
whether  to  be  grateful  to  Maude  or  troubled  because  she 
had  as  yet  given  him  no  hint  of  our  separation.  What 
effect  would  it  have  on  him  when  it  should  be  revealed  to 
him?  ...  It  was  through  Matthew  I  began  to  apprehend 
certain  elements  in  Maude  I  had  both  failed  to  note  and 
appreciate;  her  little  mannerisms  that  jarred,  her  habits 
of  thought  that  exasperated,  were  forgotten,  and  I  was 
forced  to  confess  that  there  was  something  fine  in  the 
achievement  of  this  attitude  of  hers  that  was  without  ill 
will  or  resentment,  that  tacitly  acknowledged  my  continued 
rights  and  interest  in  the  children.  It  puzzled  and  troubled 
me. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  447 


The  Citizens  Union  began  its  campaign  early  that  autumn, 
long  before  the  Hons.  Jonathan  Parks  and  Timothy  Mac- 
Guire  —  Republican  and  Democratic  candidates  for  Mayor 
—  thought  of  going  on  the  stump.  For  several  weeks  the 
meetings  were  held  in  the  small  halls  and  club  rooms  of 
various  societies  and  orders  in  obscure  portions  of  the  city. 
The  forces  of  "privilege  and  corruption"  were  not  much 
alarmed.  Perry  Blackwood  accused  the  newspapers  of 
having  agreed  to  a  "  conspiracy  of  silence " ;  but,  as  Judah 
B.  Tallant  remarked,  it  was  the  business  of  the  press  to  give 
the  public  what  it  wanted,  and  the  public  as  yet  hadn't 
shown  much  interest  in  the  struggle  being  waged  in  its 
behalf.  When  the  meetings  began  to  fill  up  it  would  be 
time  to  report  them  in  the  columns  of  the  Era.  Mean 
while,  however,  the  city  had  been  quietly  visited  by 
an  enterprising  representative  of  a  New  York  periodical 
of  the  new  type  that  developed  with  the  opening  years 
of  the  century  —  one  making  a  specialty  of  passionate 
"muck-raking."  And  since  the  people  of  America  love 
nothing  better  than  being  startled,  Yardley's  Weekly  had 
acquired  a  circulation  truly  fabulous.  The  emissary  of 
the  paper  had  attended  several  of  the  Citizens  meetings; 
interviewed,  it  seemed,  many  persons:  the  result  was  a 
revelation  to  make  the  blood  of  politicians,  capitalists 
and  corporation  lawyers  run  cold.  I  remember  very 
well  the  day  it  appeared  on  our  news  stands,  and  the 
heated  denunciations  it  evoked  at  the  Boyne  Club.  Ralph 
Hambleton  was  the  only  one  who  took  it  calmly,  who  seemed 
to  derive  a  certain  enjoyment  from  the  affair.  Had  he  been 
a  less  privileged  person,  they  would  have  put  him  in  chan 
cery.  Leonard  Dickinson  asserted  that  Yardley's  should 
be  sued  for  libel. 

"There's  just  one  objection  to  that,"  said  Ralph. 

"What?"  asked  the  banker. 

"It  isn't  libel." 


448  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"I  defy  them  to  prove  it,"  Dickinson  snapped.  "It's  a 
d — d  outrage !  There  isn't  a  city  or  village  in  the  country 
that  hasn't  exactly  the  same  conditions.  There  isn't  any 
other  way  to  run  a  city  — " 

"That's  what  Mr.  Krebs  says,"  Ralph  replied,  "that  the 
people  ought  to  put  Judd  Jason  officially  in  charge.  He 
tells  'em  that  Jason  is  probably  a  more  efficient  man  than 
Democracy  will  be  able  to  evolve  in  a  coon's  age,  that  we 
ought  to  take  him  over,  instead  of  letting  the  capitalists 
have  him." 

"Did  Krebs  say  that?"  Dickinson  demanded. 

"You  can't  have  read  the  article  very  thoroughly, 
Leonard,"  Ralph  commented.  "I'm  afraid  you  only 
picked  out  the  part  of  it  that  compliments  you.  This 
fellow  seems  to  have  been  struck  by  Krebs,  says  he's  a 
coming  man,  that  he's  making  original  contributions  to 
the  people's  cause.  Quite  a  tribute.  You  ought  to  read 
it." 

Dickinson,  who  had  finished  his  lunch,  got  up  and  left 
the  table  after  lighting  his  cigar.  Ralph's  look  followed 
him  amusedly. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  time  to  cash  in  and  be  good,"  he  observed. 

"We'll  get  that  fellow  Krebs  yet,"  said  Grierson,  wrath- 
fully.  Miller  Gorse  alone  made  no  remarks,  but  in  spite 
of  his  silence  he  emanated  an  animosity  against  reform 
and  reformers  that  seemed  to  charge  the  very  atmosphere, 
and  would  have  repressed  any  man  but  Ralph.  .  .  . 

I  sat  in  my  room  at  the  Club  that  night  and  reread  the 
article,  and  if  its  author  could  have  looked  into  my  soul 
and  observed  the  emotions  he  had  set  up,  he  would,  no 
doubt,  have  experienced  a  grim  satisfaction.  For  I,  too, 
had  come  in  for  a  share  of  the  comment.  Portions  of  the 
matter  referring  to  me  stuck  in  my  brain  like  tar,  such  as 
the  reference  to  my  father,  to  the  honoured  traditions  of 
the  Parets  and  the  Brecks  which  I  had  deliberately  repu 
diated.  I  had  less  excuse  than  many  others.  The  part  I 
had  played  in  various  reprehensible  transactions  such  as 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  449 

the  Riverside  Franchise  and  the  dummy  telephone  com 
pany  affair  was  dwelt  upon,  and  I  was  dismissed  with  the 
laconic  comment  that  I  was  a  graduate  of  Harvard.  .  .  . 

My  associates  and  myself  were  referred  to  collectively 
as  a  "gang,"  with  the  name  of  our  city  prefixed;  we  were 
linked  up  with  and  compared  to  the  gangs  of  other  cities 
—  the  terminology  used  to  describe  us  being  that  of  the 
police  reporter.  We  "operated,"  like  burglars;  we 
"looted":  only,  it  was  intimated  in  one  place,  "second- 
story  men"  were  angels  compared  to  us,  who  had  never 
seen  the  inside  of  a  penitentiary.  Here  we  were,  all  ar 
raigned  before  the  bar  of  public  opinion,  the  relentless 
Dickinson,  the  surfeited  Scherer,  the  rapacious  Grierson, 
the  salacious  Tallant.  I  have  forgotten  what  Miller  Gorse 
was  called;  nothing  so  classic  as  a  Minotaur;  Judd  Jason 
was  a  hairy  spider  who  spread  his  net  and  lurked  in  dark 
ness  for  his  victims.  Every  adjective  was  called  upon  to  do 
its  duty.  .  .  .  Even  Theodore  Watling  did  not  escape, 
but  it  was  intimated  that  he  would  be  dealt  with  in  another 
connection  in  a  future  number. 

The  article  had  a  crude  and  terrifying  power,  and  the 
pain  it  aroused,  following  almost  immediately  upon  the 
suffering  caused  by  my  separation  from  Nancy,  was  cumu 
lative  in  character  and  effect,  seeming  actively  to  reenforce 
the  unwelcome  conviction  I  had  been  striving  to  suppress, 
that  the  world,  which  had  long  seemed  so  acquiescent  in 
conforming  itself  to  my  desires,  was  turning  against  me. 
Though  my  hunger  for  Nancy  was  still  gnawing,  I  had 
begun  to  fear  that  I  should  never  get  her  now;  and  the 
fact  that  she  would  not  even  write  to  me  seemed  to  confirm 
this. 

Then  there  was  Matthew  —  I  could  not  bear  to  think 
that  he  would  ever  read  that  article. 

In  vain  I  tried  that  night  to  belittle  to  myself  its  conten 
tions  and  probable  results,  to  summon  up  the  heart  to  fight ; 
in  vain  I  sought  to  reconstruct  the  point  of  view,  to  gain 
something  of  that  renewed  hope  and  power,  of  devotion  to 
2a 


450  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

a  cause  I  had  carried  away  from  Washington  after  my  talk 
with  Theodore  Watling.  He,  though  stricken,  had  not 
wavered  in  his  faith.  Why  should  I  ?  .  .  . 


Whether  or  not  as  the  result  of  the  article  in  Yardley's, 
which  had  been  read  more  or  less  widely  in  the  city,  the 
campaign  of  the  Citizens  Union  gained  ground,  and  people 
began  to  fill  the  little  halls  to  hear  Krebs,  who  was  a  candi 
date  for  district  attorney.  Evidently  he  was  entertaining 
and  rousing  them,  for  his  reputation  spread,  and  some  of 
the  larger  halls  were  hired.  Dickinson  and  Gorse  became 
alarmed,  and  one  morning  the  banker  turned  up  at  the 
Club  while  I  was  eating  my  breakfast. 

"Look  here,  Hugh,"  he  said,  "we  may  as  well  face  the 
fact  that  we've  got  a  fight  ahead  of  us,  —  we'll  have  to 
start  some  sort  of  a  back-fire  right  away." 

"You  think  Greenhalge  has  a  chance  of  being  elected?" 
I  asked. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  Greenhalge,  but  of  this  fellow  Krebs. 
We  can't  afford  to  have  him  district  attorney,  to  let  a  dema 
gogue  like  him  get  a  start.  The  men  the  Republicans 
and  Democrats  have  nominated  are  worse  than  useless. 
Parks  is  no  good,  and  neither  is  MacGuire.  If  only  we 
could  have  foreseen  this  thing  we  might  have  had  better 
candidates  put  up  —  but  there's  no  use  crying  over  spilt 
milk.  You'll  have  to  go  on  the  stump,  Hugh  —  that's  all 
there  is  to  it.  You  can  answer  him,  and  the  newspapers 
will  print  your  speeches  in  full.  Besides  it  will  help  you 
when  it  comes  to  the  senatorship." 

i  The  mood  of  extreme  dejection  that  had  followed  the 
appearance  of  the  article  in  Yardley's  did  not  last.  I  had 
acquired  aggressiveness:  an  aggressiveness,  however,  dif 
fering  in  quality  from  the  feeling  I  once  would  have  had, 
—  for  this  arose  from  resentment,  not  from  belief.  It  was 
impossible  to  live  in  the  atmosphere  created  by  the  men 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  451 

with  whom  I  associated  —  especially  at  such  a  time  —  with 
out  imbibing  something  of  the  emotions  animating  them, 
—  even  though  I  had  been  free  from  these  emotions  myself. 
I,  too,  had  begun  to  be  filled  with  a  desire  for  revenge; 
and  when  this  desire  was  upon  me  I  did  not  have  in  my 
mind  a  pack  of  reformers,  or  even  the  writer  of  the  article 
in  Yardley's.  I  thought  of  Hermann  Krebs.  He  was  my 
persecutor;  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  always  had  been.  .  .  . 

"Well,  I'll  make  speeches  if  you  like,"  I  said  to  Dickinson. 

"I'm  glad,"  he  replied.  "We're  all  agreed,  Gorse  and 
the  rest  of  us  that  you  ought  to.  We've  got  to  get  some 
ginger  into  this  fight,  and  a  good  deal  more  money,  I'm 
afraid.  Jason  sends  word  we'll  need  more.  By  the  way, 
Hugh,  I  wish  you'd  drop  around  and  talk  to  Jason  and  get 
his  idea  of  how  the  land  lies." 

I  went,  this  tune  in  the  company  of  Judah  B.  Tallant. 
Naturally  we  didn't  expect  to  see  Mr.  Jason  perturbed, 
nor  was  he.  He  seemed  to  be  in  an  odd,  rather  exultant 
mood  —  if  he  can  be  imagined  as  exultant.  We  were  not 
long  in  finding  out  what  pleased  him  —  nothing  less  than 
the  fact  that  Mr.  Krebs  had  proposed  him  for  mayor ! 

"D — d  if  I  wouldn't  make  a  good  one,  too,"  he  said. 
"  D — d  if  I  wouldn't  show  'em  what  a  real  mayor  is ! " 

"I  guess  there's  no  danger  of  your  ever  being  mayor, 
Judd,"  Tallant  observed,  with  a  somewhat  uneasy  jocularity. 

"I  guess  there  isn't,  Judah,"  replied  the  boss,  quickly, 
but  with  a  peculiar  violet  flash  in  his  eyes.  "They  won't 
ever  make  you  mayor,  either,  if  I  can  help  it.  And  I've  a 
notion  I  can.  I'd  rather  see  Krebs  mayor." 

"You  don't  think  he  meant  to  propose  you  seriously," 
Tallant  exclaimed. 

"I'm  not  a  d— d  fool,"  said  the  boss.  "But  I'll  say 
this,  that  he  half  meant  it.  Krebs  has  a  head-piece  on  him, 
and  I  tell  you  if  any  of  this  reform  dope  is  worth  anything 
his  is.  There's  some  sense  in  what  he's  talking,  and  if  all 
the  voters  was  like  him  you  might  get  a  man  like  me  for 
mayor.  But  they're  not,  and  I  guess  they  never  will  be." 


452  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Both  Tallant  and  I  were  surprised  to  hear  these  sentiments 
out  of  the  mouth  of  Mr.  Jason. 

"You  don't  think  that  crowd's  going  to  win,  do  you?" 
asked  the  owner  of  the  Era,  a  trifle  uneasily. 

"Win!"  exclaimed  the  boss  contemptuously.  "They'll 
blow  up,  and  you'll  never  hear  of  'em.  I'm  not  saying  we 
won't  need  a  little  —  powder,"  he  added  —  which  was  one 
of  the  matters  we  had  come  to  talk  about.  He  gave  us 
likewise  a  very  accurate  idea  of  the  state  of  the  campaign, 
mentioning  certain  things  that  ought  to  be  done.  "You 
ought  to  print  some  of  Krebs's  speeches,  Judah,  like  what 
he  said  about  me.  They're  talking  it  all  around  that  you're 
afraid  to." 

"  Print  things  like  his  proposal  to  make  you  mayor ! " 

"Sure,"  said  Mr.  Jason.  "The  people  are  dotty  —  there 
ain't  one  in  ten  thousand  understands  what  he's  driving  at 
when  he  gets  off  things  like  that.  They  take  it  on  the  level." 

Tallant  reflected. 

"By  gum,  I  believe  you're  right,"  he  said.  "You  think 
they  will  blow  up?"  he  added. 

"Krebs  is  the  whole  show,  I  tell  you.  They  wouldn't  be 
anywhere  without  him.  The  yaps  that  listen  to  him  don't 
understand  him,  but  somehow  he  gets  under  their  skins. 
Have  you  seen  him  lately  ?  " 

"Never  saw  him,"  replied  Tallant. 

"Well,  if  you  had,  you'd  know  he  was  a  sick  man." 

"  Sick ! "  I  exclaimed.     "  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"It's  my  business  to  know  things,"  said  Judd  Jason, 
and  added  to  Tallant,  "  that  your  reporters  don't  find 
out." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  Tallant  demanded.  A 
slight  exultation  in  his  tone  did  not  escape  me. 

"You've  got  me  there,"  said  Jason,  "but  I  have  it  pretty 
straight.  Any  one  of  your  reporters  will  tell  you  that  he 
looks  sick."  .  .  . 

The  Era  took  Mr.  Jason's  advice  and  began  to  publish 
those  portions  of  Krebs's  speeches  that  were  seemingly  detri- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  453 

mental  to  his  own  cause.    Other  conservative  newspapers 
followed  suit.  ...  i$j 

The  information  that  I  was  to  enter  the  lists  against 
Krebs  was  received  with  satisfaction  and  approval  by  those 
of  our  friends  who  were  called  in  to  assist  at  a  council  of 
war  in  the  directors'  room  of  the  Corn  National  Bank. 
I  was  flattered  by  the  confidence  these  men  seemed  to  have 
in  my  ability.  All  were  in  a  state  of  anger  against  the 
reformers ;  none  of  them  seriously  alarmed  as  to  the  actual 
outcome  of  the  campaign,  —  especially  when  I  had  given 
them  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Jason.  What  disturbed  them 
was  the  possible  effect  upon  the  future  of  the  spread  of 
heretical,  socialistic  doctrines,  and  it  was  decided  to  or 
ganize  a  publicity  bureau,  independently  of  the  two  domi 
nant  political  parties,  to  be  in  charge  of  a  certain  New  York 
journalist  who  made  a  business  of  such  affairs,  who  was 
to  be  paid  a  sum  commensurate  with  the  emergency.  He 
was  to  have  carte  blanche,  even  in  the  editorial  columns  of 
our  newspapers.  He  was  also  to  flood  the  city  with  "  litera 
ture."  We  had  fought  many  wars  before  this,  and  we 
planned  our  campaign  precisely  as  though  we  were  dealing 
with  one  of  those  rebellions  in  the  realm  of  finance  of  which 
I  have  given  an  instance.  But  now  the  war  chest  of  our 
opponents  was  negligible;  and  we  were  comforted  by  the 
thought  that,  however  disagreeable  the  affair  might  be 
while  it  lasted,  in  the  long  run  capital  was  invincible. 


Before  setting  to  work  to  prepare  my  speeches  it  was 
necessary  to  make  an  attempt  to  familiarize  myself  with 
the  seemingly  unprecedented  line  of  argument  Krebs  had 
evolved  —  apparently  as  disconcerting  to  his  friends  as  to 
his  opponents.  It  occurred  to  me,  since  I  did  not  care  to 
attend  Krebs's  meetings,  to  ask  my  confidential  stenographer, 
Miss  McCoy,  to  go  to  Turner's  Hall  and  take  down  one  of  his 
speeches  verbatim.  Miss  McCoy  had  never  intruded  on  me 


454  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

her  own  views,  and  I  took  for  granted  that  they  coincided 
with  my  own. 

1  •  "I'd  like  to  get  an  accurate  record  of  what  he  is  saying," 
I  told  her.     "  Do  you  mind  going  ?  " 

"No,  I'll  be  glad  to  go,  Mr.  Paret,"  she  said  quietly. 

"He's  doing  more  harm  than  we  thought,"  I  remarked, 
after  a  moment.  "I've  known  him  for  a  good  many  years. 
He's  clever.  He's  sowing  seeds  of  discontent,  starting 
trouble  that  will  be  very  serious  unless  it  is  headed  off." 

Miss  McCoy  made  no  comment.  .  .  . 

Before  noon  the  next  day  she  brought  in  the  speech, 
neatly  typewritten,  and  laid  it  on  my  desk.  Looking  up 
and  catching  her  eye  just  as  she  was  about  to  withdraw, 
I  was  suddenly  impelled  to  ask :  — 

"Well,  what  did  you  think  of  it?" 

She  actually  flushed,  for  the  first  tune  in  my  dealings 
with  her  betraying  a  feeling  which  I  am  sure  she  deemed 
most  unprofessional. 

"I  liked  it,  Mr.  Paret,"  she  replied  simply,  and  I  knew 
that  she  had  understated.  It  was  quite  apparent  that 
Krebs  had  captivated  her.  I  tried  not  to  betray  my  an 
noyance. 

"  Was  there  a  good  audience  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"  How  many  do  you  think  ?  " 

She  hesitated. 

"It  isn't  a  very  large  hall,  you  know.  I  should  say  it 
would  hold  about  eight  hundred  people." 

"  And  —  it  was  full  ?  "  I  persisted. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  were  numbers  of  people  standing." 

I  thought  I  detected  in  her  tone  —  although  it  was  not 
apologetic  —  a  desire  to  spare  my  feelings.  She  hesitated 
a  moment  more,  and  then  left  the  room,  closing  the  door 
softly  behind  her.  .  .  . 

Presently  I  took  up  the  pages  and  began  to  read.  The 
language  was  simple  and  direct,  an  appeal  to  common  sense, 
yet  the  words  strangely  seemed  charged  with  an  emotional 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  455 

power  that  I  found  myself  resisting.  When  at  length  I 
laid  down  the  sheets  I  wondered  whether  it  were  imagination, 
or  the  uncomfortable  result  of  memories  of  conversations  I 
had  had  with  him. 

I  was,  however,  confronted  with  the  task  of  refuting  his 
arguments:  but  with  exasperating  ingenuity  he  seemed  to 
have  taken  the  wind  out  of  our  sails.  It  is  difficult  to  answer 
a  man  who  denies  the  cardinal  principle  of  American  de 
mocracy,  —  that  a  good  mayor  or  a  governor  may  be  made 
out  of  a  dog-catcher.  He  called  this  the  Cincinnatus 
theory:  that  any  American,  because  he  was  an  American, 
was  fit  for  any  job  in  the  gift  of  state  or  city  or  government, 
from  sheriff  to  Ambassador  to  Great  Britain.  Krebs  sub 
stituted  for  this  fallacy  what  may  be  called  the  doctrine 
of  potentiality.  If  we  inaugurated  and  developed  a  system 
of  democratic  education,  based  on  scientific  principles,  and 
caught  the  dog-catcher  young  enough,  he  might  become  a 
statesman  or  thinker  or  scientist  and  make  his  contribution 
to  the  welfare  and  progress  of  the  nation :  again,  he  might 
not;  but  he  would  have  had  his  chance,  he  would  not  be 
in  a  position  to  complain. 

Here  was  a  doctrine,  I  immediately  perceived,  which  it 
would  be  suicidal  to  attempt  to  refute.  It  ought,  indeed, 
to  have  been  my  line.  With  a  growing  distaste  I  began 
to  realize  that  all  there  was  left  for  me  was  to  flatter  a  popu 
lace  that  Krebs,  paradoxically,  belaboured.  Never  in  the 
history  of  American  "uplift"  had  an  electorate  been  in  this 
manner  wooed !  upbraided  for  expediency,  a  proneness  to 
demand  immediate  results,  an  unwillingness  to  think,  — 
yes,  and  an  inability  to  think  straight.  Such  an  electorate 
deserved  to  be  led  around  by  the  nose  by  the  Jasons  and 
Dickinsons,  the  Gorses  and  the  Griersons  and  the  Parets. 

Yes,  he  had  mentioned  me.  That  gave  me  a  queer  sen 
sation.  How  is  one  to  handle  an  opponent  who  praises 
one  with  a  delightful  irony?  We,  the  Dickinsons,  Grier 
sons,  Parets,  Jasons,  etc.,  had  this  virtue  at  least,  and  it 
was  by  no  means  the  least  of  the  virtues,  —  that  we  did 


456  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

think.  We  had  a  plan,  a  theory  of  government,  and  we 
carried  it  out.  He  was  inclined  to  believe  that  morality 
consisted  largely,  if  not  wholly,  in  clear  thinking,  and  not 
in  the  precepts  of  the  Sunday-school.  That  was  the  trouble 
with  the  so-called  "  reform  "  campaigns,  they  were  conducted 
on  lines  of  Sunday-school  morality;  the  people  worked 
themselves  up  into  a  sort  of  revivalist  frenzy,  an  emotional 
state  which,  if  the  truth  were  told,  was  thoroughly  immoral, 
unreasonable  and  hypocritical :  like  all  frenzies,  as  a  matter 
of  course  it  died  down  after  the  campaign  was  over.  More 
over,  the  American  people  had  shown  that  they  were  un 
willing  to  make  any  sacrifices  for  the  permanent  betterment 
of  conditions,  and  as  soon  as  their  incomes  began  to  fall  off 
they  turned  again  to  the  bosses  and  capitalists  like  an 
abject  flock  of  sheep. 

He  went  on  to  explain  that  he  wasn't  referring  now  to 
that  part  of  the  electorate  known  as  the  labour  element, 
the  men  who  worked  with  their  hands  in  mills,  factories,  etc. 
They  had  their  faults,  yet  they  possessed  at  least  the  virtue 
of  solidarity,  a  willingness  to  undergo  sacrifices  in  order  to 
advance  the  standard  of  conditions ;  they  too  had  a  tenacity 
of  purpose  and  a  plan,  such  as  it  was,  which  the  small  business 
men,  the  clerks  lacked.  .  .  . 

We  must  wake  up  to  the  fact  that  we  shouldn't  get  Utopia 
by  turning  out  Mr.  Jason  and  the  highly  efficient  gentlemen 
who  hired  and  financed  him.  It  wasn't  so  simple  as  that. 
Utopia  was  not  an  achievement  after  all,  but  an  undertaking, 
a  state  of  mind,  the  continued  overcoming  of  resistance  by  a 
progressive  education  and  effort.  And  all  this  talk  of  polit 
ical  and  financial  "wickedness"  was  rubbish;  the  wicked 
ness  they  complained  of^did  not  reside  merely  in  individuals  : 
it  was  a  social  disorder,  or  rather  an  order  that  no  longer 
suited  social  conditions.  If  the  so-called  good  citizens  would 
take  the  trouble  to  educate  themselves,  to  think  instead  of 
allowing  their  thinking  to  be  done  for  them,  they  would 
see  that  the  "evils"  which  had  been  published  broadcast 
were  merely  the  symptoms  of  that  disease  which  had  come 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  457 

upon  the  social  body  through  their  collective  neglect  and 
indifference.  They  held  up  their  hands  in  horror  at  the  spec 
tacle  of  a  commercial,  licensed  prostitution,  they  shunned 
the  prostitute  and  the  criminal ;  but  there  was  none  of  us, 
if  honest,  who  would  not  exclaim  when  he  saw  them,  "  there, 
but  for  the  Grace  of  God,  go  I ! "  What  we  still  called  "  sin  " 
was  largely  the  result  of  lack  of  opportunity,  and  the  active 
principle  of  society  as  at  present  organized  tended  more 
and  more  to  restrict  opportunity.  Lack  of  opportunity, 
lack  of  proper  nutrition,  —  these  made  sinners  by  the  whole 
sale  ;  made,  too,  nine-tenths  of  the  inefficient  of  whom  we 
self-righteously  complained.  We  had  a  national  philosophy 
that  measured  prosperity  in  dollars  and  cents,  included  in 
this  measurement  the  profits  of  liquor  dealers  who  were  re 
sponsible  for  most  of  our  idiots.  So  long  as  we  set  our  hearts 
on  that  kind  of  prosperity,  so  long  as  we  failed  to  grasp  the 
simple  and  practical  fact  that  the  greatest  assets  of  a  nation 
are  healthy  and  sane  and  educated,  clear-thinking  human 
beings,  just  so  long  was  prostitution  logical,  Riverside  Fran 
chises,  traction  deals,  Judd  Jasons,  and  the  respectable  gentle 
men  who  continued  to  fill  their  coffers  out  of  the  public  purse 
inevitable. 

The  speaker  turned  his  attention  to  the  "respectable  gentle 
men"  with  the  full  coffers,  amongst  whom  I  was  by  implica 
tion  included.  We  had  simply  succeeded  under  the  rules 
to  which  society  tacitly  agreed.  That  was  our  sin.  He 
ventured  to  say  that  there  were  few  men  in  the  hall  who  at 
the  bottom  of  their  hearts  did  not  envy  and  even  honour  our 
success.  He,  for  one,  did  not  deem  these  "respectable  gen 
tlemen"  utterly  reprehensible;  he  was  sufficiently  emanci 
pated  to  be  sorry  for  us.  He  suspected  that  we  were  not 
wholly  happy  in  being  winners  in  such  a  game,  —  he  even  be 
lieved  that  we  could  wish  as  much  as  any  others  to  change  the 
game  and  the  prizes.  What  we  represented  was  valuable 
energy  misdirected  and  misplaced,  and  in  a  reorganized  com 
munity  he  would  not  abolish  us,  but  transform  us :  transform, 
at  least,  the  individuals  of  our  type,  who  were  the  builders  gone 


458  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

wrong  under  the  influence  of  an  outworn  philosophy.  We 
might  be  made  to  serve  the  city  and  the  state  with  the  same 
effectiveness  that  we  had  served  ourselves. 

If  the  best  among  the  scientists,  among  the  university  pro 
fessors  and  physicians  were  willing  to  labour  —  and  they 
were  —  for  the  advancement  of  humanity,  for  the  very  love 
of  the  work  and  service  without  disproportionate  emoluments, 
without  the  accumulation  of  a  wealth  difficult  to  spend,  why 
surely  these  big  business  men  had  been  moulded  in  infancy 
from  no  different  clay !  All  were  Americans.  Instance  after 
instance  might  be  cited  of  business  men  and  lawyers  of  ability 
making  sacrifices,  giving  up  their  personal  affairs  in  order  to 
take  places  of  honour  in  the  government  in  which  the  salary 
was  comparatively  small,  proving  that  even  these  were  open 
to  inducements  other  than  merely  mercenary  ones. 

It  was  unfortunate,  he  went  on,  but  true,  that  the  vast 
majority  of  people  of  voting  age  in  the  United  States  to-day 
who  thought  they  had  been  educated  were  under  the  obliga 
tion  to  reeducate  themselves.  He  suggested,  whimsically, 
a  vacation  school  for  Congress  and  all  legislative  bodies  as 
a  starter.  Until  the  fact  of  the  utter  inadequacy  of  the  old 
education  were  faced,  there  was  little  or  no  hope  of  solving 
the  problems  that  harassed  us.  One  thing  was  certain  — 
that  they  couldn't  be  solved  by  a  rule-of-thumb  morality. 
Coincident  with  the  appearance  of  these  new  and  mighty 
problems,  perhaps  in  response  to  them,  a  new  and  saner  view 
of  life  itself  was  being  developed  by  the  world's  thinkers,  new 
sciences  were  being  evolved,  correlated  sciences ;  a  psychology 
making  a  truer  analysis  of  human  motives,  impulses,  of 
human  possibilities ;  an  economics  and  a  theory  of  govern 
ment  that  took  account  of  this  psychology,  and  of  the  vast 
changes  applied  science  had  made  in  production  and  distri 
bution.  We  lived  in  a  new  world,  which  we  sought  to  ignore ; 
and  the  new  education,  the  new  viewpoint  was  in  truth 
nothing  but  religion  made  practical.  It  had  never  been 
thought  practical  before.  The  motive  that  compelled  men 
to  work  for  humanity  in  science,  in  medicine,  in  art  —  yes, 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  459 

and  in  business,  if  we  took  the  right  view  of  it,  was  the  reli 
gious  motive.  The  application  of  religion  was  to-day  ex 
tending  from  the  individual  to  society.  No  religion  that  did 
not  fill  the  needs  of  both  was  a  true  religion. 

This  meant  the  development  of  a  new  culture,  one  to  be 
founded  on  the  American  tradition  of  equality  of  opportunity. 
But  culture  was  not  a  weed  that  grew  overnight ;  it  was  a 
leaven  that  spread  slowly  and  painfully,  first  inoculating  a 
few  who  suffered  and  often  died  for  it,  that  it  might  gradually 
affect  the  many.  The  spread  of  culture  implied  the  recogni 
tion  of  leadership :  democratic  leadership,  but  still  leadership. 
Leadership,  and  the  wisdom  it  implied,  did  not  reside  in  the 
people,  but  in  the  leaders  who  sprang  from  the  people  and 
interpreted  their  needs  and  longings.  .  .  .  He  went  on  to 
discuss  a  part  of  the  programme  of  the  Citizens  Union.  .  .  . 

What  struck  me,  as  I  laid  down  the  typewritten  sheets, 
was  the  extraordinary  resemblance  between  the  philosophies 
of  Hermann  Krebs  and  Theodore  Watling.  Only  —  Krebs's 
philosophy  was  the  bigger,  held  the  greater  vision  of  the  two ; 
I  had  reluctantly  and  rather  bitterly  to  admit  it.  The  appeal 
of  it  had  even  reached  and  stirred  me,  whose  task  was  to  re 
fute  it !  Here  indeed  was  something  to  fight  for  —  perhaps 
to  die  for,  as  he  had  said :  and  as  I  sat  there  in  my  office 
gazing  out  of  the  window  I  found  myself  repeating  certain 
phrases  he  had  used  —  the  phrase  about  leadership,  for  in 
stance.  It  was  a  tremendous  conception  of  Democracy,  that 
of  acquiescence  to  developed  leadership  made  responsible; 
a  conception  I  was  compelled  to  confess  transcended  Mr. 
Watling's,  loyal  as  I  was  to  him.  ...  I  began  to  reflect  how 
novel  all  this  was  in  a  political  speech  —  although  what  I 
have  quoted  was  in  the  nature  of  a  preamble.  It  was  a  ser 
mon,  an  educational  sermon.  Well,  that  is  what  sermons 
always  had  been,  —  and  even  now  pretended  to  be,  —  edu 
cational  and  stirring,  appealing  to  the  emotions  through  the 
intellect.  It  didn't  read  like  the  Socialism  he  used  to  preach, 
it  had  the  ring  of  religion.  He  had  called  it  religion. 

With  an  effort  of  the  will  I  turned  from  this  ironical  and 


460  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

dangerous  vision  of  a  Hugh  Paret  who  might  have  been  en 
listed  in  an  inspiring  struggle,  of  a  modern  yet  unregenerate 
Saul  kicking  against  the  pricks,  condemned  to  go  forth  breath 
ing  fire  against  a  doctrine  that  made  a  true  appeal ;  against 
the  man  I  believed  I  hated  just  because  he  had  made  this  ap 
peal.  In  the  act  of  summoning  my  counter-arguments  I  was 
interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Grierson.  He  was  calling  on 
a  matter  of  business,  but  began  to  talk  about  the  extracts 
from  Krebs's  speech  he  had  read  in  the  Mail  and  State. 

"What  in  hell  is  this  fellow  driving  at,  Paret?"  he  de 
manded.  "  It  sounds  to  me  like  the  ranting  of  a  lunatic  der 
vish.  If  he  thinks  so  much  of  us,  and  the  way  we  run  the 
town,  what's  he  squawking  about  ?  " 

I  looked  at  Grierson,  and  conceived  an  intense  aversion  for 
him.  I  wondered  how  I  had  ever  been  able  to  stand  him, 
to  work  with  him.  I  saw  him  in  a  sudden  flash  as  a  cunning, 
cruel  bird  of  prey,  a  gorged,  drab  vulture  with  beady  eyes,  — 
a  resemblance  so  extraordinary  that  I  wondered  I  had  never 
remarked  it  before.  For  he  had  the  hooked  vulture  nose, 
while  the  pink  baldness  of  his  head  was  relieved  by  a  few 
scanty  tufts  of  hair. 

"The  people  seem  to  like  what  he's  got  to  say,"  I  observed. 

"It  beats  me,"  said  Grierson.  "They  don't  understand  a 
quarter  of  it  —  I've  been  talking  to  some  of  'em.  It's  their 
d — d  curiosity,  I  guess.  You  know  how  they'll  stand  for 
hours  around  a  street  fakir." 

"  It's  more  than  that,"  I  retorted. 

Grierson  regarded  me  piercingly. 

"Well,  we'll  put  a  crimp  in  him,  all  right,"  he  said,  with 
a  laugh. 

I  was  in  an  unenviable  state  of  mind  when  he  left  me.  I 
had  an  impulse  to  send  for  Miss  McCoy  and  ask  her  if  she  had 
understood  what  Krebs  was  "driving  at,"  but  for  reasons 
that  must  be  fairly  obvious  I  refrained.  I  read  over  again 
that  part  of  Krebs's  speech  which  dealt  with  the  immediate 
programme  of  the  Citizens  Union.  After  paying  a  tribute 
to  Greenhalge  as  a  man  of  common  sense  and  dependability 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  461 

who  would  make  a  good  mayor,  he  went  on  to  explain  the 
principle  of  the  new  charter  they  hoped  ultimately  to  get, 
which  should  put  the  management  of  the  city  in  the  hands 
of  one  man,  an  expert  employed  by  a  commission ;  an  expert 
whose  duty  it  would  be  to  conduct  the  affairs  of  the  city  on  a 
business  basis,  precisely  as  those  of  any  efficient  corporation 
were  conducted.  This  plan  had  already  been  adopted,  with 
encouraging  results,  in  several  smaller  cities  of  the  country. 
He  explained  in  some  detail,  with  statistics,  the  waste  and  in 
efficiency  and  dishonesty  in  various  departments  under  the 
present  system,  dwelling  particularly  upon  the  deplorable 
state  of  affairs  in  the  city  hospital. 

I  need  not  dwell  upon  this  portion  of  his  remarks.  Since 
then  text-books  and  serious  periodicals  have  dealt  with  these 
matters  thoroughly.  They  are  now  familiar  to  all  thinking 
Americans. 


XXV 


MY  entrance  into  the  campaign  was  accompanied  by  a 
blare  of  publicity,  and  during  that  fortnight  I  never  picked 
up  a  morning  or  evening  newspaper  without  reading,  on  the 
first  page,  some  such  headline  as  "  Crowds  flock  to  hear  Paret." 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  crowds  did  flock ;  but  I  never  quite 
knew  as  I  looked  down  from  platforms  on  seas  of  faces  how 
much  of  the  flocking  was  spontaneous.  Much  of  it  was  so, 
since  the  struggle  had  then  become  sufficiently  dramatic  to 
appeal  to  the  larger  public  imagination  that  is  but  occasion 
ally  waked ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  magic  of  advertising  can 
not  be  underestimated ;  nor  must  the  existence  be  ignored 
of  an  organized  corps  of  shepherds  under  the  vigilant  direc 
tion  of  Mr.  Judd  Jason,  whose  duty  it  was  to  see  that  none 
of  our  meetings  was  lacking  in  numbers  and  enthusiasm. 
There  was  always  a  demonstrative  gathering  overflowing  the 
sidewalk  in  front  of  the  entrance,  swaying  and  cheering  in  the 
light  of  the  street  lamps,  and  on  the  floor  within  an  ample 
scattering  of  suspiciously  bleary-eyed  voters  to  start  the 
stamping  and  applauding.  In  spite  of  these  known  facts, 
the  impression  of  popularity,  of  repudiation  of  reform  by  a 
large  majority  of  level-headed  inhabitants  had  reassuring  and 
reenforcing  effects. 

Astute  citizens,  spectators  of  the  fray  —  if  indeed  there 
were  any  —  might  have  remarked  an  unique  and  significant 
feature  of  that  campaign :  that  the  usual  recriminations  be 
tween  the  two  great  parties  were  lacking.  Mr.  Parks,  the 
Republican  candidate,  did  not  denounce  Mr.  MacGuire,  the 
Democratic  candidate.  Republican  and  Democratic  speakers 

462 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  463 

alike  expended  their  breath  in  lashing  Mr.  Krebs  and  the 
Citizens  Union. 

It  is  difficult  to  record  the  fluctuations  of  my  spirit.  When 
I  was  in  the  halls,  speaking  or  waiting  to  speak,  I  reacted  to 
that  phenomenon  known  as  mob  psychology,  I  became  self- 
confident,  even  exhilarated ;  and  in  those  earlier  speeches  I 
managed,  I  think,  to  strike  the  note  for  which  I  strove  —  the 
judicial  note,  suitable  to  a  lawyer  of  weight  and  prominence, 
of  deprecation  rather  than  denunciation.  I  sought  to  em 
body  and  voice  a  fine  and  calm  sanity  at  a  time  when  everyone 
else  seemed  in  danger  of  losing  their  heads,  and  to  a  large 
extent  achieved  it.  I  had  known  Mr.  Krebs  for  more  than 
twenty  years,  and  while  I  did  not  care  to  criticise  a  fellow- 
member  of  the  bar,  I  would  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  was 
visionary,  that  the  changes  he  proposed  in  government  would, 
if  adopted,  have  grave  and  far-reaching  results:  we  could 
not,  for  instance,  support  in  idleness  those  who  refused  to  do 
their  share  of  the  work  of  the  world.  Mr.  Krebs  was  well- 
meaning.  I'jefrained  from  dwelling  too  long  upon  him,  pass 
ing  to  Mr.  Greenhalge,  also  well-meaning,  but  a  man  of  medi 
ocre  ability  who  would  make  a  mess  of  the  government  of  a 
city  which  would  one  day  rival  New  York  and  Chicago. 
(Loud  cheers.)  And  I  pointed  out  that  Mr.  Perry  Black- 
wood  had  been  unable  to  manage  the  affairs  of  the  Boyne 
Street  road.  Such  men,  well-intentioned  though  they  might 
be,  were  hindrances  to  progress.  This  led  me  naturally  to  a 
discussion  of  the  Riverside  Franchise  and  the  Traction  Con 
solidation.  I  was  one  of  those  whose  honesty  and  good  faith 
had  been  arraigned,  but  I  would  not  stoop  to  refute  the  accu 
sations.  I  dwelt  upon  the  benefits  to  the  city,  uniform 
service,  electricity  and  large  comfortable  cars  instead  of  rattle 
trap  conveyances,  and  the  development  of  a  large  and  grow 
ing  population  in  the  Riverside  neighbourhood :  the  continual 
extension  of  lines  to  suburban  districts  that  enabled  hard- 
worked  men  to  live  out  of  the  smoke :  I  called  attention  to 
the  system  of  transfers,  the  distance  a  passenger  might  be 
conveyed,  and  conveyed  quickly,  for  the  sum  of  five  cents. 


464  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

I  spoke  of  our  capitalists  as  men  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning.  Their  money  was  always  at  the  service  of  enter 
prises  tending  to  the  development  of  our  metropolis. 

When  I  was  not  in  the  meetings,  however,  and  especially 
when  in  my  room  at  night,  I  was  continually  trying  to  fight 
off  a  sense  of  loneliness  that  seemed  to  threaten  to  overwhelm 
me.  I  wanted  to  be  alone,  and  yet  I  feared  to  be.  I  was 
aware,  in  spite  of  their  congratulations  on  my  efforts,  of  a 
growing  dislike  for  my  associates;  and  in  the  appalling 
emptiness  of  the  moments  when  my  depression  was  greatest 
I  was  forced  to  the  realization  that  I  had  no  disinterested 
friend  —  not  one  —  in  whom  I  could  confide.  Nancy  had 
failed  me ;  I  had  scarcely  seen  Tom  Peters  that  winter,  and 
it  was  out  of  the  question  to  go  to  him.  For  the  third  time 
in  my  life,  and  in  the  greatest  crisis  of  all,  I  was  feeling  the 
need  of  Something,  of  some  sustaining  and  impelling  Power 
that  must  be  presented  humanly,  possessing  sympathy  and 
understanding  and  love.  ...  I  think  I  had  a  glimpse  — 
just  a  pathetic  glimpse  —  of  what  the  Church  might  be  of 
human  solidarity,  comfort  and  support,  of  human  tolerance, 
if  stripped  of  the  superstition  of  an  ancient  science.  My  tor 
tures  weren't  of  the  flesh,  but  of  the  mind.  My  mind  was  the 
sheep  which  had  gone  astray.  Was  there  no  such  thing, 
could  there  be  no  such  thing  as  a  human  association  that 
might  at  the  same  time  be  a  divine  organism,  a  fold  and  a 
refuge  for  the  lost  and  divided  minds  ?  The  source  of  all  this 
trouble  was  social.  .  .  . 

Then  toward  the  end  of  that  last  campaign  week,  madness 
suddenly  came  upon  me.  I  know  now  how  near  the  break 
ing  point  I  was,  but  the  immediate  cause  of  my  "flying  to 
pieces"  —  to  use  a  vivid  expression  —  was  a  speech  made 
by  Guptill,  one  of  the  Citizens  Union  candidates  for  alder 
man,  a  young  man  of  a  radical  type  not  uncommon  in  these 
days,  though  new  to  my  experience:  an  educated  man  in 
the  ultra-radical  sense,  yet  lacking  poise  and  perspective, 
with  a  certain  brilliance  and  assurance.  He  was  a  journal 
ist,  a  correspondent  of  some  Eastern  newspapers  and  periodi- 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  465 

cals.  In  this  speech,  which  was  reported  to  me  —  for  it 
did  not  get  into  the  newspapers  —  I  was  the  particular 
object  of  his  attack.  Men  of  my  kind,  and  not  the  Judd 
Jasons  (for  whom  there  was  some  excuse)  were  the  least 
dispensable  tools  of  the  capitalists,  the  greatest  menace  to 
civilization.  We  were  absolutely  lacking  in  principle,  we 
were  ready  at  any  tune  to  besmirch  our  profession  by  legal 
izing  steals ;  we  fouled  our  nests  with  dirty  fees.  Not  all 
that  he  said  was  vituperation,  for  he  knew  something  of  the 
modern  theory  of  the  law  that  legal  radicals  had  begun  to 
proclaim,  and  even  to  teach  in  some  tolerant  universities. 

The  next  night,  in  the  middle  of  a  prepared  speech  I  was 
delivering  to  a  large  crowd  in  Kingdon  Hall  there  had  been 
jeers  from  a  group  in  a  corner  at  some  assertion  I  made. 
Guptill's  accusations  had  been  festering  in  my  mind.  The 
faces  of  the  people  grew  blurred  as  I  felt  anger  boiling,  rising 
within  me ;  suddenly  my  control  gave  way,  and  I  launched 
forth  into  a  denunciation  of  Greenhalge,  Krebs,  Guptill 
and  even  of  Perry  Blackwood  that  must  have  been  without 
license  or  bounds.  I  can  recall  only  fragments  of  my  re 
marks  :  Greenhalge  wanted  to  be  mayor,  and  was  willing  to 
put  the  stigma  of  slander  on  his  native  city  in  order  to  gain 
his  ambition ;  Krebs  had  made  a  failure  of  his  profession,  of 
everything  save  in  bringing  shame  on  the  place  of  his  adoption ; 
and  on  the  single  occasion  heretofore  when  he  had  been  be 
fore  the  public,  in  the  School  Board  fiasco,  the  officials  in 
dicted  on  his  supposed  evidence  had  triumphantly  been 
vindicated ;  Guptill  was  gaining  money  and  notoriety  out  of 
his  spleen;  Perry  Blackwood  was  acting  out  of  spite  .  .  . 
I  returned  to  Krebs,  declaring  that  he  would  be  the  boss  of 
the  city  if  that  ticket  were  elected,  demanding  whether 
they  wished  for  a  boss  an  agitator  itching  for  power  and 
recognition.  .  .  . 

I  was  conscious  at  the  moment  only  of  a  wild  relief  and 

joy  in  letting  myself  go,  feelings  heightened  by  the  clapping 

and  cheers  with  which  my  characterizations  were  received. 

The  fact  that  the  cheers  were  mingled  with  hisses  merely 

2n 


466  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

served  to  drive  me  on.  At  length,  when  I  had  returned  to 
Krebs,  the  hisses  were  redoubled,  angering  me  the  more  be 
cause  of  the  evidence  they  gave  of  friends  of  his  in  my  audi 
ences.  Perhaps  I  had  made  some  of  these  friends  for  him ! 
A  voice  shouted  out  above  the  uproar :  — 

"I  know  about  Krebs.  He's  a  d — d  sight  better  man 
than  you."  And  this  started  a  struggle  in  a  corner  of  the 
hall.  ...  I  managed,  somehow,  when  the  commotion  had 
subsided,  to  regain  my  poise,  and  ended  by  uttering  the 
conviction  that  the  common  sense  of  the  community  would 
repudiate  the  Citizens  Union  and  all  it  stood  for.  .  .  . 

But  that  night,  as  I  lay  awake  listening  to  the  street  noises 
and  staring  at  the  glint  from  a  street  lamp  on  the  brass  knob 
of  my  bedstead,  I  knew  that  I  had  failed.  I  had  committed 
the  supreme  violation  of  the  self  that  leads  inevitably  to  its 
final  dissolution.  .  .  .  Even  the  exuberant  headlines  of  the 
newspapers  handed  me  by  the  club  servant  in  the  morning 
brought  but  little  relief. 


On  the  Saturday  morning  before  the  Tuesday  of  election 
there  was  a  conference  in  the  directors'  room  of  the  Corn 
National.  The  city  reeked  with  smoke  and  acrid,  stale  gas, 
the  electric  lights  were  turned  on  to  dispel  the  November 
gloom.  It  was  not  a  cheerful  conference,  nor  a  confident 
one.  For  the  first  time  in  a  collective  experience  the  men 
gathered  there  were  confronted  with  a  situation  which  they 
doubted  their  ability  to  control,  a  situation  for  which  there 
was  no  precedent.  They  had  to  reckon  with  a  new  and 
unsolvable  equation  in  politics  and  finance,  —  the  indepen 
dent  voter.  There  was  an  element  of  desperation  in  the  dis 
cussion.  Recriminations  passed.  Dickinson  implied  that 
Gorse  with  all  his  knowledge  of  political  affairs  ought  to  have 
foreseen  that  something  like  this  was  sure  to  happen,  should 
have  managed  better  the  conventions  of  both  great  parties. 
The  railroad  counsel  retorted  that  it  had  been  as  much 
Dickinson's  fault  as  his.  Grierson  expressed  a  regret  that 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  467 

I  had  broken  out  against  the  reformers ;  it  had  reacted,  he 
said,  —  and  this  was  just  enough  to  sting  me  to  retaliate 
that  things  had  been  done  in  the  campaign,  chiefly  through 
his  initiative,  that  were  not  only  unwise,  but  might  land 
some  of  us  in  the  penitentiary  if  Krebs  were  elected. 

"Well,"  Grierson  exclaimed,  "whether  he's  elected  or  not, 
I  wouldn't  give  much  now  for  your  chances  of  getting  to  the 
Senate.  We  can't  afford  to  fly  in  the  face  of  the  dear  public." 

A  tense  silence  followed  this  remark.  In  the  street  below 
the  rumble  of  the  traffic  came  to  us  muffled  by  the  heavy 
plate-glass  windows.  I  saw  Tallant  glance  at  Gorse  and 
Dickinson,  and  I  knew  the  matter  had  been  decided  be 
tween  themselves,  that  they  had  been  merely  withhold 
ing  it  from  me  until  after  election.  I  was  besmirched, 
for  the  present  at  least. 

"  I  think  you  will  do  me  the  justice,  gentlemen,"  I  remem 
ber  saying  slowly,  with  the  excessive  and  rather  ridiculous 
formality  of  a  man  who  is  near  the  end  of  his  tether,  "that 
the  idea  of  representing  you  in  the  Senate  was  yours,  not 
mine.  You  begged  me  to  take  the  appointment  against  my 
wishes  and  my  judgment.  I  had  no  desire  to  go  to  Wash 
ington  then,  I  have  less  to-day.  I  have  come  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  my  usefulness  to  you  is  at  an  end." 

I  got  to  my  feet.  I  beheld  Miller  Gorse  sitting  impassive, 
with  his  encompassing  stare,  the  strongest  man  of  them  all. 
A  change  of  firmaments  would  not  move  him.  But  Dick 
inson  had  risen  and  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  It  was 
the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  him  white. 

"  Hold  on,  Hugh,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  guess  we're  all  a  little 
cantankerous  to-day.  This  confounded  campaign  has  got 
on  our  nerves,  and  we  say  things  we  don't  mean.  You 
mustn't  think  we're  not  grateful  for  the  services  you've  ren 
dered  us.  We're  all  in  the  same  boat,  and  there  isn't  a 
man  who's  been  on  our  side  of  this  fight  who  could  take  a 
political  office  at  this  time.  We've  got  to  face  that  fact,  and 
I  know  you  have  the  sense  to  see  it,  too.  I,  for  one,  won't 
be  satisfied  until  I  see  you  in  the  Senate.  It's  where  you 


468  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

belong,  and  you  deserve  to  be  there.  You  understand  what 
the  public  is,  how  it  blows  hot  and  cold,  and  in  a  few  years 
they'll  be  howling  to  get  us  back,  if  these  demagogues  win. 

"Sure,"  chimed  in  Grierson,  who  was  frightened,  "that's 
right,  Hugh.  I  didn't  mean  anything.  Nobody  appre 
ciates  you  more  than  I  do,  old  man." 

Tallant,  too,  added  something,  and  Berringer,  —  I've 
forgotten  what.  I  was  tired,  too  tired  to  meet  their  advances 
halfway.  I  said  that  I  had  a  speech  to  get  ready  for  that 
night,  and  other  affairs  to  attend  to,  and  left  them  grouped 
together  like  crestfallen  conspirators  —  all  save  Miller 
Gorse,  whose  pervasive  gaze  seemed  to  follow  me  after  I 
had  closed  the  door. 

An  elevator  took  me  down  to  the  lobby  of  the  Corn  Bank 
Building.  I  paused  for  a  moment,  aimlessly  regarding  the 
streams  of  humanity  hurrying  in  and  out,  streaking  the  white 
marble  floor  with  the  wet  filth  of  the  streets.  Someone  spoke 
my  name.  It  was  Bitter,  Judd  Jason's  "legal"  tool,  and  I 
permitted  myself  to  be  dragged  out  of  the  eddies  into  a  quiet 
corner  by  the  cigar  stand. 

"Say,  I  guess  we've  got  Krebs's  goat  all  right,  this  time," 
he  told  me  confidentially,  in  a  voice  a  little  above  a  whisper ; 
"  he  was  busy  with  the  shirt-waist  girls  last  year,  you  remem 
ber,  when  they  were  striking.  Well,  one  of  'em,  one  of  the 
strike  leaders,  has  taken  to  easy  street ;  she's  agreed  to  send 
him  a  letter  to-night  to  come  'round  to  her  room  after  his 
meeting,  to  say  that  she's  sick  and  wants  to  see  him.  He'll 
go,  all  right.  We'll  have  some  fun,  we'll  be  ready  for  him. 
Do  you  get  me?  So  long.  The  old  man's  waiting  for  me." 

It  may  seem  odd  that  this  piece  of  information  did  not 
produce  an  immediately  revolting  effect.  I  knew  that  simi 
lar  practices  had  been  tried  on  Krebs,  but  this  was  the 
first  tune  I  had  heard  of  a  definite  plan,  and  from  a  man 
like  Bitter.  As  I  made  my  way  out  of  the  building  I  had, 
indeed,  a  nauseated  feeling;  Jason's  "lawyer"  was  a  dirty 
little  man,  smelling  of  stale  cigars,  with  a  blue-black,  un 
shaven  face.  In  spite  of  the  shocking  nature  of  his  confi- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  469 

dence,  he  had  actually  not  succeeded  in  deflecting  the  current 
of  my  thoughts;  these  were  still  running  over  the  scene  in 
the  directors'  room.  I  had  listened  to  him  passively  while 
he  had  held  my  buttonhole,  and  he  had  detained  me  but  an 
instant. 

When  I  reached  the  street  I  was  wondering  whether  Gorse 
and  Dickinson  and  the  others,  Grierson  especially,  could 
possibly  have  entertained  the  belief  that  I  would  turn  traitor  ? 
I  told  myself  that  I  had  no  intention  of  this.  How  could 
I  turn  traitor?  and  what  would  be  the  object?  revenge? 
The  nauseated  feeling  grew  more  acute.  .  .  .  Reaching 
my  office,  I  shut  the  door,  sat  down  at  my  desk,  summoned 
my  will,  and  began  to  jot  down  random  notes  for  the  part  of 
my  speech  I  was  to  give  the  newspapers,  notes  that  were  mere 
silly  fragments  of  arguments  I  had  once  thought  effective. 
I  could  no  more  concentrate  on  them  than  I  could  have 
written  a  poem.  Gradually,  like  the  smoke  that  settled 
down  on  our  city  until  we  lived  in  darkness  at  midday,  the 
horror  of  what  Bitter  had  told  me  began  to  pervade  my 
mind,  until  I  was  in  a  state  of  terror. 

Had  I,  Hugh  Paret,  fallen  to  this,  that  I  could  stand  by 
consenting  to  an  act  which  was  worse  than  assassination  ? 
Was  any  cause  worth  it?  Could  any  cause  survive  it? 
But  my  attempts  at  reasoning  might  be  likened  to  the  strain 
ings  of  a  wayfarer  lost  on  a  mountain  side  to  pick  his  way  hi 
the  gathering  dusk.  I  had  just  that  desperate  feeling  of 
being  lost,  and  with  it  went  an  acute  sense  of  an  imminent 
danger ;  the  ground,  no  longer  firm  under  my  feet,  had  be- 
;come  a  sliding  shale  sloping  toward  an  unseen  precipice. 
Perhaps,  like  the  wayfarer,  my  fears  were  the  sharper  for 
the  memory  of  the  beauty  of  the  morning  on  that  same 
mountain,  when,  filled  with  vigour,  I  had  gazed  on  it  from 
the  plain  below  and  beheld  the  sun  breaking  through  the 
mists.  .  .  . 

The  necessity  of  taking  some  action  to  avert  what  I  now 
realized  as  an  infamy  pressed  upon  me,  yet  in  conflict  with 
the  pressure  of  this  necessity  there  persisted  that  old  rebel- 


470  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

lion,  that  bitterness  which  had  been  growing  all  these  years 
against  the  man  who,  above  all  others,  seemed  to  me  to 
represent  the  forces  setting  at  nought  my  achievements, 
bringing  me  to  this  pass.  .  .  . 

I  thought  of  appealing  to  Leonard  Dickinson,  who  surely, 
if  he  knew  of  it,  would  not  permit  this  thing  to  be  done ; 
and  he  was  the  only  man  with  the  possible  exception  of  Miller 
Gorse  who  might  be  able  to  restrain  Judd  Jason.  But  I  de 
layed  until  after  the  luncheon  hour,  when  I  called  up  the 
bank  on  the  telephone,  to  discover  that  it  was  closed.  I  had 
forgotten  that  the  day  was  Saturday.  I  was  prepared  to 
say  that  I  would  withdraw  from  the  campaign,  warn  Krebs 
myself  if  this  kind  of  tactics  were  not  suppressed.  But  I 
could  not  get  the  banker.  Then  I  began  to  have  doubts  of 
Dickinson's  power  in  the  matter.  Judd  Jason  had  never 
been  tractable,  by  any  means ;  he  had  always  maintained  a 
considerable  independence  of  the  financial  powers,  and  to-day 
not  only  financial  control,  but  the  dominance  of  Jason  him 
self  was  at  stake.  He  would  fight  for  it  to  the  last  ditch, 
and  make  use  of  any  means.  No,  it  was  of  no  use  to  appeal 
to  him.  What  then?  Well,  there  was  a  reaction,  or  an 
attempt  at  one.  Krebs  had  not  been  born  yesterday,  he  had 
avoided  the  wiles  of  the  politicians  heretofore,  he  wouldn't 
be  fool  enough  to  be  taken  hi  now.  I  told  myself  that  if  I 
were  not  in  a  state  bordering  on  a  nervous  breakdown,  I 
should  laugh  at  such  morbid  fears,  I  steadied  myself  suffi 
ciently  to  dictate  the  extract  from  my  speech  that  was  to 
be  published.  I  was  to  make  addresses  at  two  halls,  alter 
nating  with  Parks,  the  mayoralty  candidate.  At  four  o'clock 
I  went  back  to  my  room  in  the  Club  to  try  to  get  some 
rest.  .  .  . 

Seddon's  Hall,  the  place  of  my  first  meeting,  was  jammed 
that  Saturday  night.  I  went  through  my  speech  auto 
matically,  as  in  a  dream,  the  habit  of  long  years  asserting 
itself.  And  yet  —  so  I  was  told  afterwards  —  my  delivery 
was  not  mechanical,  and  I  actually  achieved  more  emphasis, 
gave  a  greater  impression  of  conviction  than  at  any  time 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  471 

since  the  night  I  had  lost  my  control  and  violently  de 
nounced  the  reformers.  By  some  astonishing  subconscious 
process  I  had  regained  my  manner,  but  the  applause  came 
to  me  as  from  a  distance.  Not  only  was  my  mind  not 
there;  it  did  not  seem  to  be  anywhere.  I  was  dazed,  nor  did 
I  feel — save  once — a  fleeting  surge  of  contempt  for  the  mob 
below  me  with  their  silly  faces  upturned  to  mine.  There 
may  have  been  intelligent  expressions  among  them,  but 
they  failed  to  catch  my  eye. 

I  remember  being  stopped  by  Grierson  as  I  was  going  out 
of  the  side  entrance.  He  took  my  hand  and  squeezed  it, 
and  there  was  on  his  face  an  odd,  surprised  look. 

"That  was  the  best  yet,  Hugh,"  he  said. 

I  went  on  past  him.  Looking  back  on  that  evening  now, 
it  would  almost  seem  as  though  the  volition  of  another 
possessed  me,  not  my  own:  seemingly,  I  had  every  inten 
tion  of  going  on  to  the  National  Theatre,  in  which  Parks 
had  just  spoken,  and  as  I  descended  the  narrow  stairway 
and  emerged  on  the  side  street  I  caught  sight  of  my  chauffeur 
awaiting  me  by  the  curb. 

"I'm  not  going  to  that  other  meeting,"  I  found  myself 
saying.  "  I'm  pretty  tired." 

"Shall  I  drive  you  back  to  the  Club,  sir?"  he  inquired. 

"No  —  I'll  walk  back.  Wait  a  moment."  I  entered  the 
car,  turned  on  the  light  and  scribbled  a  hasty  note  to  Andrews, 
the  chairman  of  the  meeting  at  the  National,  telling  him  that 
I  was  too  tired  to  speak  again  that  Jiight,  and  to  ask  one  of 
the  younger  men  there  to  take  my  place.  Then  I  got  out  of 
the  car  and  gave  the  note  to  the  chauffeur. 

"You're  all  right,  sir?"  he  asked,  with  a  note  of  anxiety 
in  his  voice.  He  had  been  with  me  a  long  tune. 

I  reassured  him.  He  started  the  car,  and  I  watched  it 
absently  as  it  gathered  speed  and  turned  the  corner.  I 
began  to  walk,  slowly  at  first,  then  more  and  more  rapidly 
until  I  had  gamed  a  breathless  pace ;  in  ten  minutes  I  was 
in  West  Street,  standing  in  front  of  the  Templar's  Hall 
where  the  meeting  of  the  Citizens  Union  was  in  progress. 


472  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

Now  that  I  had  arrived  there,  doubt  and  uncertainty  as 
sailed  me.  I  had  come  as  it  were  in  spite  of  myself,  thrust 
onward  by  an  impulse  I  did  not  understand,  which  did  not 
seem  to  be  mine.  What  was  I  going  to  do?  The  proceed 
ing  suddenly  appeared  to  me  as  ridiculous,  tinged  with  the 
weirdness  of  somnambulism.  I  revolted,  walked  away,  got 
as  far  as  the  corner  and  stood  beside  a  lamp  post,  pretending 
to  be  waiting  for  a  car.  The  street  lights  were  reflected  in 
perpendicular,  wavy-yellow  ribbons  on  the  wet  asphalt, 
and  I  stood  staring  with  foolish  intentness  at  this  phe 
nomenon,  wondering  how  a  painter  would  get  the  effect  in 
oils.  Again  I  was  walking  back  towards  the  hall,  com 
bating  the  acknowledgment  to  myself  that  I  had  a  plan, 
a  plan  that  I  did  not  for  a  moment  believe  I  would  carry 
out.  I  was  shivering. 

I  climbed  the  steps.  The  wide  vestibule  was  empty 
except  for  two  men  who  stopped  a  low-toned  conversation 
to  look  at  me.  I  wondered  whether  they  recognized  me; 
that  I  might  be  recognized  was  an  alarming  possibility 
which  had  not  occurred  to  me. 

"Who  is  speaking?"  I  asked. 

"Mr.  Krebs,"  answered  the  taller  man  of  the  two. 

The  hum  of  applause  came  from  behind  the  swinging 
doors.  I  pushed  them  open  cautiously,  passing  suddenly 
out  of  the  cold  into  the  reeking,  heated  atmosphere  of  a 
building  packed  with  human  beings.  The  space  behind  the 
rear  seats  was  filled  with  men  standing,  and  those  nearest 
glanced  around  with  annoyance  at  the  interruption  of  my 
entrance.  I  made  my  way  along  the  wall,  finally  reaching 
a  side  aisle,  whence  I  could  get  sight  of  the  platform  and  the 
speaker. 

I  heard  his  words  distinctly,  but  at  first  lacked  the  faculty 
of  stringing  them  together,  or  rather  of  extracting  their 
collective  sense.  The  phrases  indeed  were  set  ringing 
through  my  mind,  I  found  myself  repeating  them  without 
any  reference  to  their  meaning ;  I  had  reached  the  peculiar 
pitch  of  excitement  that  counterfeits  abnormal  calm,  and 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  473 

all  sense  of  strangeness  at  being  there  in  that  meeting  had 
passed  away.  I  began  to  wonder  how  I  might  warn  Krebs, 
and  presently  decided  to  send  him  a  note  when  he  should 
have  finished  speaking  —  but  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind 
whether  to  put  my  name  to  the  note  or  not.  Of  course  I 
needn't  have  entered  the  hall  at  all :  I  might  have  sent  in 
my  note  at  the  side  door. 

I  must  have  wished  to  see  Krebs,  to  hear  him  speak;  to 
observe,  perhaps,  the  effect  on  the  audience.  In  spite  of 
my  inability  to  take  in  what  he  was  saying,  I  was  able  to 
regard  him  objectively,  —  objectively,  in  a  restricted  sense. 
I  noticed  that  he  had  grown  even  thinner;  the  flesh  had 
fallen  away  from  under  his  cheek-bones,  and  there  were 
sharp,  deep,  almost  perpendicular  lines  on  either  side  of  his 
mouth.  He  was  emaciated,  that  was  the  word.  Once  in  a 
while  he  thrust  his  hand  through  his  dry,  ashy  hair  which 
was  of  a  tone  with  the  paleness  of  his  face.  Such  was  his 
only  gesture. 

He  spoke  quietly,  leaning  with  one  elbow  against  the  side 
of  his  reading  stand.  The  occasional  pulsations  of  applause 
were  almost  immediately  hushed,  as  though  the  people 
feared  to  lose  even  a  word  that  should  fall  from  his  dry 
lips.  What  was  it  he  was  talking  about?  I  tried  to  con 
centrate  my  attention,  with  only  partial  success.  He  was 
explaining  the  new  theory  of  city  government  that  did 
not  attempt  to  evade,  but  dealt  frankly  with  the  human 
needs  of  to-day,  and  sought  to  meet  those  needs  in  a  positive 
way.  .  .  What  had  happened  to  me,  though  I  did  not  realize 
it,  was  that  I  had  gradually  come  under  the  influence  of  a 
tragic  spell  not  attributable  to  the  words  I  heard,  existing 
independently  of  them,  pervading  the  spacious  hall,  weaving 
into  unity  dissentient  minds.  And  then,  with  what  seemed 
a  retarded  rather  than  sudden  awareness,  I  knew  that  he 
had  stopped  speaking.  Once  more  he  ran  his  hand  through 
his  hair,  he  was  seemingly  groping  for  words  that  would 
not  come.  I  was  pierced  by  a  strange  agony  —  the  amazing 
source  of  which  seemed  to  be  a  smile  on  the  face  of  Her- 


474  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

mann  Krebs,  an  ineffable  smile  illuminating  the  place  like 
a  flash  of  light,  in  which  suffering  and  tragedy,  comradeship 
and  loving  kindness  —  all  were  mingled.  He  stood  for  a 
moment  with  that  smile  on  his  face  —  swayed,  and  would 
have  fallen  had  it  not  been  for  the  quickness  of  a  man 
on  the  platform  behind  him,  and  into  whose  arms  he 
sank. 

In  an  instant  people  had  risen  in  their  seats,  men  were 
hurrying  down  the  aisles,  while  a  peculiar  human  murmur 
or  wail  persisted  like  an  undertone  beneath  the  confusion 
of  noises,  striking  the  very  note  of  my  own  feelings.  Above 
the  heads  of  those  about  me  I  saw  Krebs  being  carried  off 
the  platform.  .  .  .  The  chairman  motioned  for  silence 
and  inquired  if  there  were  a  physician  in  the  audience,  and 
then  all  began  to  talk  at  once.  The  man  who  stood  beside 
me  clutched  my  arm. 

"I  hope  he  isn't  dead!  Say,  did  you  see  that  smile? 
My  God,  I'll  never  forget  it!" 

The  exclamation  poignantly  voiced  the  esteem  in  which 
Krebs  was  held.  As  I  was  thrust  along  out  of  the  hall  by 
the  ebb  of  the  crowd  still  other  expressions  of  this  esteem 
came  to  me  in  fragments,  expressions  of  sorrow  and  dismay, 
of  a  loyalty  I  had  not  imagined.  Mingled  with  these  were 
occasional  remarks  of  skeptics  shaken,  in  human  fashion, 
by  the  suggestion  of  the  inevitable  end  that  never  fails  to 
sober  and  terrify  humanity. 

"I  guess  he  was  a  bigger  man  than  we  thought.  There 
was  a  lot  of  sense  in  what  he  had  to  say." 

"There  sure  was,"  the  companion  of  this  speaker  an 
swered. 

They  spoke  of  him  in  the  past  tense.  I  was  seized  and 
obsessed  by  the  fear  that  I  should  never  see  him  again,  and 
at  the  same  moment  I  realized  sharply  that  this  was  the 
one  thing  I  wanted  —  to  see  him.  I  pushed  through  the 
people,  gained  the  street,  and  fairly  ran  down  the  alley 
that  led  to  the  side  entrance  of  the  hall,  where  a  small 
group  was  gathered  under  the  light  that  hung  above  the 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  475 

doorway.  There  stood  on  the  step,  a  little  above  the  others, 
a  young  man  in  a  grey  flannel  shirt,  evidently  a  mechanic. 
I  addressed  him. 

"  What  does  the  doctor  say  ?  " 

Before  replying  he  surveyed  me  with  surprise  and,  I  think, 
with  instinctive  suspicion  of  my  clothes  and  bearing. 

"What  can  he  say?"  he  retorted. 

"You  mean  — ?"  I  began. 

"  I  mean  Mr.  Krebs  oughtn't  never  to  have  gone  into  this 
campaign,"  he  answered,  relenting  a  trifle,  perhaps  at  the 
tone  of  my  voice.  "  He  knew  it,  too,  and  some  of  us  fellows 
tried  to  stop  him.  But  we  couldn't  do  nothing  with  him," 
he  added  dejectedly. 

"What  is  —  the  trouble ?"  I  asked. 

"They  tell  me  it's  his  heart.     He  wouldn't  talk  about  it." 

"When  I  think  of  what  he  done  for  our  union !"  exclaimed 
a  thick-set  man,  plainly  a  steel  worker.  "He's  just  wore 
himself  out,  fighting  that  crooked  gang."  He  stared  with 
sudden  aggressiveness  at  me.  "Haven't  I  seen  you  some- 
wheres  ?  "  he  demanded. 

A  denial  was  on  my  lips  when  the  sharp,  sinister  strokes 
of  a  bell  were  heard  coming  nearer. 

"It's  the  ambulance,"  said  the  man  on  the  step. 

Glancing  up  the  alley  beyond  the  figures  of  two  police 
men  who  had  arrived  and  were  holding  the  people  back, 
I  saw  the  hood  of  the  conveyance  as  it  came  to  a  halt,  and 
immediately  a  hospital  doctor  and  two  assistants  carrying 
a  stretcher  hurried  towards  us,  and  we  made  way  for  them 
to  enter.  After  a  brief  interval,  they  were  heard  coming 
slowly  down  the  steps  inside.  By  the  white,  cruel  light  of 
the  arc  I  saw  Krebs  lying  motionless.  ...  I  laid  hold  of 
one  of  the  men  who  had  been  on  the  platform.  He  did  not 
resent  the  act,  he  seemed  to  anticipate  my  question. 

"He'c  conscious.  The  doctors  expect  him  to  rally  when 
he  gets  to  the  hospital." 

I  walked  back  to  the  Club  to  discover  that  several  inquiries 
had  been  made  about  me.  Reporters  had  been  there,  Re- 


476  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

publican  Headquarters  had  telephoned  to  know  if  I  were 
ill.  Leaving  word  that  I  was  not  to  be  disturbed  under 
any  circumstances,  I  went  to  my  room,  and  spent  most  of 
the  night  in  distracted  thought.  When  at  last  morning 
came  I  breakfasted  early,  searching  the  newspapers  for  ac 
counts  of  the  occurrence  at  Templar's  Hall;  and  the  fact 
'that  these  were  neither  conspicuous  nor  circumstantial  was 
'  in  the  nature  of  a  triumph  of  self-control  on  the  part  of  edi 
tors  and  reporters.  News,  however  sensational,  had  severely 
to  be  condensed  in  the  interest  of  a  cause,  and  at  this  critical 
stage  of  the  campaign  to  make  a  tragic  hero  of  Hermann 
Krebs  would  have  been  the  height  of  folly.  There  were 
a  couple  of  paragraphs  giving  the  gist  of  his  speech,  and  a 
statement  at  the  end  that  he  had  been  taken  ill  and  conveyed 
to  the  Presbyterian  Hospital.  .  .  . 

The  hospital  itself  loomed  up  before  me  that  Sunday 
morning  as  I  approached  it  along  Ballantyne  Street,  a  diluted 
sunshine  washing  the  extended,  businesslike  fa$ade  of  grimy, 
yellow  brick.  We  were  proud  of  that  hospital  in  the  city, 
and  many  of  our  foremost  citizens  had  contributed  large 
sums  of  money  to  the  building,  scarcely  ten  years  old.  It 
had  been  one  of  Maude's  interests.  I  was  ushered  into  the 
reception  room,  where  presently  came  the  physician  in 
charge,  a  Dr.  Castle,  one  of  those  quiet-mannered,  modern 
young  medical  men  who  bear  on  their  persons  the  very  stamp 
of  efficiency,  of  the  dignity  of  a  scientific  profession.  His 
greeting  implied  that  he  knew  all  about  me,  his  pres 
ence  seemed  to  increase  the  agitation  I  tried  not  to  betray, 
and  must  have  betrayed. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Mr.  Paret?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  come  to  inquire  about  Mr.  Krebs,  who  was 
brought  here  last  night,  I  believe." 

I  was  aware  for  an  instant  of  his  penetrating,  professional 
glance,  the  only  indication  of  the  surprise  he  must  have  felt 
that  Hermann  Krebs,  of  all  men,  should  be  the  object  of  my 
solicitude. 

"  Why,  we  sent  him  home  this  morning.    Nineteen  twenty- 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  477 

six  Fowler  Street.  He  wanted  to  go,  and  there  was  no  use 
in  his  staying." 

"He  will  recover?"  I  asked. 

The  physician  shook  his  head,  gazing  at  me  through  his 
glasses. 

"  He  may  live  a  month,  Mr.  Paret,  he  may  die  to-morrow. 
He  ought  never  to  have  gone  into  this  campaign,  he  knew 
he  had  this  trouble.  Hepburn  warned  him  three  months 
ago,  and  there's  no  man  who  knows  more  about  the  heart 
than  Hepburn." 

"Then  there's  no  hope?"  I  asked. 

"Absolutely  none.  It's  a  great  pity."  He  added,  after 
a  moment,  "Mr.  Krebs  was  a  remarkable  man." 

"Nineteen  twenty-six  Fowler  Street?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes." 

I  held  out  my  hand  mechanically,  and  he  pressed  it,  and 
went  with  me  to  the  door. 

"Nineteen  twenty-six  Fowler  Street,"  he  repeated.  .  .  . 

The  mean  and  sordid  aspect  of  Fowler  Street  emphasized 
and  seemed  to  typify  my  despair,  the  pungent  coal  smoke 
stifled  my  lungs  even  as  it  stifled  my  spirit.  Ugly  factories, 
which  were  little  more  than  sweatshops,  wore  an  empty, 
menacing,  "  Sunday "  look,  and  the  faint  November  sunlight 
glistened  on  dirty  pavements  where  children  were  making 
a  semblance  of  play.  Monotonous  rows  of  red  houses  suc 
ceeded  one  another,  some  pushed  forward,  others  thrust 
back  behind  little  plots  of  stamped  earth.  Into  one  of  these 
I  turned.  It  seemed  a  little  cleaner,  better  kept,  less  sordid 
than  the  others.  I  pulled  the  bell,  and  presently  the  door 
was  opened  by  a  woman  whose  arms  were  bare  to  the  elbow. 
She  wore  a  blue-checked  calico  apron  that  came  to  her 
throat,  but  the  apron  was  clean,  and  her  firm  though  fur 
rowed  face  gave  evidences  of  recent  housewifely  exertions. 
Her  eyes  had  the  strange  look  of  the  cheerfulness  that  is 
intimately  acquainted  with  sorrow.  She  did  not  seem 
surprised  at  seeing  me. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  about  Mr.  Krebs,"  I  told  her. 


478  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "there's  been  so  many  here  this 
morning  already.  It's  wonderful  how  people  love  him,  all 
kinds  of  people.  No,  sir,  he  don't  seem  to  be  in  any  pain. 
Two  gentlemen  are  up  there  now  —  in  his  room,  I  mean." 

She  wiped  her  arms,  which  still  bore  traces  of  soap-suds, 
...  and  then,  with  a  gesture  natural  and  unashamed,  lifted  the 
corner  of  her  apron  to  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  see  him  —  for  a  moment  ? "  I 
asked.  "I've  known  him  for  a  long  time." 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "I  guess  so.  The  doctor 
said  he  could  see  some,  and  he  wants  to  see  his  friends. 
That's  not  strange  —  he  always  did.  I'll  ask.  Will  you 
tell  me  your  name  ?  " 

I  took  out  a  card.  She  held  it  without  glancing  at  it,  and 
invited  me  in. 

I  waited,  unnerved  and  feverish,  pulsing,  in  the  dark 
and  narrow  hall  beside  the  flimsy  rack  where  several  coats 
and  hats  were  hung.  Once  before  I  had  visited  Krebs  in 
that  lodging-house  in  Cambridge  long  ago  with  something 
of  the  same  feelings.  But  now  they  were  greatly  intensified. 
Now  he  was  dying.  .  .  . 

The  woman  was  descending. 

"He  says  he  wants  to  see  you,  sir,"  she  said  rather  breath 
lessly,  and  I  followed  her.  In  the  semi-darkness  of  the 
stairs  I  passed  the  three  men  who  had  been  with  Krebs,  and 
when  I  reached  the  open  door  of  his  room  he  was  alone.  I 
hesitated  just  a  second,  swept  by  the  heat  wave  that  follows 
sudden  shyness,  embarrassment,  a  sense  of  folly  it  is  too 
l  late  to  avert. 

Krebs  was  propped  up  with  pillows. 

"Well,  this  is  good  of  you,"  he  said,  and  reached  out  his 
hand  across  the  spread.  I  took  it,  and  sat  down  beside  the 
shiny  oak  bedstead,  in  a  chair  covered  with  tobacco-colored 
plush. 

"You  feel  better?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  I  feel  all  right,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile.  "It's 
queer,  but  I  do." 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  479- 

My  eye  fell  upon  the  long  line  of  sectional  book-cases  that 
lined  one  side  of  the  room.  "Why,  you've  got  quite  a 
library  here,"  I  observed. 

"Yes,  I've  managed  to  get  together  some  good  books. 
But  there  is  so  much  to  read  nowadays,  so  much  that  is 
really  good  and  new,  a  man  has  the  hopeless  feeling  he  can 
never  catch  up  with  it  all.  A  thousand  writers  and  students 
are  making  contributions  to-day  where  fifty  years  ago  there 
was  one." 

"  I've  been  following  your  speeches,  after  a  fashion,  —  I 
wish  I  might  have  been  able  to  read  more  of  them.  Your 
argument  interested  me.  It's  new,  unlike  the  ordinary 
propaganda  of  — " 

"Of  agitators,"  he  supplied,  with  a  smile. 

"Of  agitators,"  I  agreed,  and  tried  to  return  his  smile. 
"An  agitator  who  appears  to  suggest  the  foundations  of  a 
constructive  programme  and  who  isn't  afraid  to  criticise  the 
man  with  a  vote  as  well  as  the  capitalist  is  an  unusual 
phenomenon." 

"Oh,  when  we  realize  that  we've  only  got  a  little  time 
left  in  which  to  tell  what  we  think  to  be  the  truth,  it  doesn't 
require  a  great  deal  of  courage,  Paret.  I  didn't  begin  to 
see  this  thing  until  a  little  while  ago.  I  was  only  a  crude, 
hot-headed  revolutionist.  God  knows  I'm  crude  enough 
still.  But  I  began  to  have  a  glimmering  of  what  all 
these  new  fellows  in  the  universities  are  driving  at."  He 
waved  his  hand  towards  the  book-cases.  "  Driving  at  col 
lectively,  I  mean.  And  there  are  attempts,  worthy  attempts, 
to  coordinate  and  synthesize  the  sciences.  What  I  have 
been  saying  is  not  strictly  original.  I  took  it  on  the  stump, 
that's  all.  I  didn't  expect  it  to  have  much  effect  in  this 
campaign,  but  it  was  an  opportunity  to  sow  a  few  seeds, 
to  start  a  sense  of  personal  dissatisfaction  in  the  minds  of  a 
few  voters.  What  is  it  Browning  says?  It's  in  Bishop 
Blougram,  I  believe.  'When  the  fight  begins  within  him 
self,  a  man's  worth  something.'  It's  an  intellectual  fight,  of 
course." 


480  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

His  words  were  spoken  quietly,  but  I  realized  suddenly 
that  the  mysterious  force  which  had  drawn  me  to  him  now, 
against  my  will,  was  an  intellectual  rather  than  apparently 
sentimental  one,  an  intellectual  force  seeming  to  comprise 
within  it  all  other  human  attractions.  And  yet  I  felt  a  sud 
den  contrition. 

"See  here,  Krebs,"  I  said,  "I  didn't  come  here  to  bother 
you  about  these  matters,  to  tire  you.  I  mustn't  stay.  I'll 
call  in  again  to  see  how  you  are  —  from  time  to  time." 

"But  you're  not  tiring  me,"  he  protested,  stretching  forth 
a  thin,  detaining  hand.  "I  don't  want  to  rot,  I  want  to 
live  and  think  as  long  as  I  can.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Paret, 
I've  been  wishing  to  talk  to  you  —  I'm  glad  you  came  in." 

"You've  been  wishing  to  talk  to  me?"  I  said. 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  expect  you'd  come  in.  I  hope  you 
won't  mind  my  saying  so,  under  the  circumstances,  but  I've 
always  rather  liked  you,  admired  you,  even  back  in  the 
Cambridge  days.  After  that  I  used  to  blame  you  for  going 
out  and  taking  what  you  wanted,  and  I  had  to  live  a  good 
many  years  before  I  began  to  see  that  it's  better  for  a  man 
to  take  what  he  wants  than  to  take  nothing  at  all.  I  took 
what  I  wanted,  every  man  worth  his  salt  does.  There's 
your  great  banker  friend  in  New  York  whom  I  used  to  think 
was  the  arch-fiend.  He  took  what  he  wanted,  and  he  took 
a  good  deal,  but  it  happened  to  be  good  for  him.  And  by 
piling  up  his  corporations,  Ossa  on  Pelion,  he  is  paving  the 
way  for  a  logical  economic  evolution.  How  can  a  man  in 
our  tune  find  out  what  he  does  want  unless  he  takes  some 
thing  and  gives  it  a  trial?" 

"Until  he  begins  to  feel  that  it  disagrees  with  him,"  I 
said.  "But  then,"  I  added  involuntarily,  "then  it  may  be 
too  late  to  try  something  else,  and  he  may  not  know  what  to 
try."  This  remark  of  mine  might  have  surprised  me  had 
it  not  been  for  the  feeling  —  now  grown  definite  —  that 
Krebs  had  something  to  give  me,  something  to  pass  on  to 
me,  of  all  men.  Indeed,  he  had  hinted  as  much,  when  he 
acknowledged  a  wish  to  talk  to  me.  "What  seems  so 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  481 

strange,"  I  said,  as  I  looked  at  him  lying  back  on  his 
pillows,  "  is  your  faith  that  we  shall  be  able  to  bring  order 
out  of  all  this  chaos  —  your  belief  in  Democracy." 

"Democracy's  an  adventure,"  he  replied,  "the  great 
adventure  of  mankind.  I  think  the  trouble  in  many  minds 
lies  in  the  fact  that  they  persist  in  regarding  it  as  something 
to  be  made  safe.  All  that  can  be  done  is  to  try  to  make  it 
as  safe  as  possible.  But  no  adventure  is  safe  —  life  itself 
is  an  adventure,  and  neither  is  that  safe.  It's  a  hazard, 
as  you  and  I  have  found  out.  The  moment  we  try  to  make 
life  safe  we  lose  all  there  is  in  it  worth  while." 

I  thought  a  moment. 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  I  agreed.  On  the  table  beside  the  bed 
in  company  with  two  or  three  other  volumes,  lay  a  Bible. 
He  seemed  to  notice  that  my  eye  fell  upon  it. 

"Do  you  remember  the  story  of  the  Prodigal  Son?"  he 
asked.  "Well,  that's  the  parable  of  democracy,  of  self- 
government  in  the  individual  and  in  society.  In  order  to 
arrive  at  salvation,  Paret,  most  of  us  have  to  take  our  journey 
into  a  far  country." 

"A  far  country!"  I  exclaimed.  The  words  struck  a 
reminiscent  chord. 

"We  have  to  leave  what  seem  the  safe  things,  we  have  to 
wander  and  suffer  in  order  to  realize  that  the  only  true  safety 
lies  in  development.  We  have  first  to  cast  off  the  leading 
strings  of  authority.  It's  a  delusion  that  we  can  insure 
ourselves  by  remaining  within  its  walls  —  we  have  to  risk 
our  lives  and  our  souls.  It  is  discouraging  when  we  look 
around  us  to-day,  and  in  a  way  the  pessimists  are  right 
when  they  say  we  don't  see  democracy.  We  see  only  what 
may  be  called  the  first  stage  of  it ;  for  democracy  is  still  in  a 
far  country  eating  the  husks  of  individualism,  materialism. 
What  we  see  is  not  true  freedom,  but  freedom  run  to  riot, 
men  struggling  for  themselves,  spending  on  themselves  the 
fruits  of  their  inheritance;  we  see  a  government  intent  on 
one  object  alone  —  exploitation  of  this  inheritance  in  order 
to  achieve  what  it  calls  prosperity.  And  God  is  far  away." 
2i 


482  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"And  —  we  shall  turn ? "  I  asked. 

"We  shall  turn  or  perish.  I  believe  that  we  shall  turn." 
He  fixed  his  eyes  on  my  face.  "What  is  it,"  he  asked,  "that 
brought  you  here  to  me,  to-day?" 

I  was  silent. 

"The  motive,  Paret  —  the  motive  that  sends  us  all  wan 
dering  into  a  far  country  is  divine,  is  inherited  from  God 
himself.  And  the  same  motive,  after  our  eyes  shall  have  been 
opened,  after  we  shall  have  seen  and  known  the  tragedy  and 
misery  of  life,  after  we  shall  have  made  the  mistakes  and  com 
mitted  the  sins  and  experienced  the  emptiness  —  the  same 
motive  will  lead  us  back  again.  That,  too,  is  an  adventure, 
the  greatest  adventure  of  all.  Because,  when  we  go  back  we 
shall  not  find  the  same  God  —  or  rather  we  shall  recognize 
him  in  ourselves.  Autonomy  is  godliness,  knowledge  is 
godliness.  We  went  away  cringing,  superstitious,  we  saw 
everywhere  omens  and  evidences  of  his  wrath  in  the  earth 
and  sea  and  sky,  we  burned  candles  and  sacrificed  animals 
in  the  vain  hope  of  averting  scourges  and  other  calamities. 
But  when  we  come  back  it  will  be  with  a  knowledge  of 
his  ways,  gained  at  a  price,  —  the  price  he,  too,  must  have 
paid. —  and  we  shall  be  able  to  stand  up  and  look  him  in  the 
face,  and  all  our  childish  superstitions  and  optimisms  shall 
have  been  burned  away." 

Some  faith  indeed  had  given  him  strength  to  renounce 
those  things  in  life  I  had  held  dear,  driven  him  on  to  fight  un 
til  his  exhausted  body  failed  him,  and  even  now  that  he  was 
physically  helpless  sustained  him.  I  did  not  ask  myself, 
then,  the  nature  of  this  faith.  In  its  presence  it  could  no  more 
be  questioned  than  the  light.  It  was  light ;  I  felt  bathed  in 
it.  Now  it  was  soft,  suffused :  but  I  remembered  how  the 
night  before  in  the  hall,  just  before  he  had  fallen,  it  had 
flashed  forth  in  a  smile  and  illumined  my  soul  with  an  ecstasy 
that  yet  was  anguish.  .  .  . 

"We  shall  get  back,"  I  said  at  length.  My  remark 
was  not  a  question  —  it  had  escaped  from  me  almost 
unawares. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  483 

"The  joy  is  in  the  journey,"  he  answered.  "The  secret 
is  in  the  search." 

"But  for  me?"  I  exclaimed. 

"We've  all  been  lost,  Paret.  It  would  seem  as  though  we 
have  to  be." 

"And  yet  you  are  —  saved,"  I  said,  hesitating  over  the 
word. 

"It  is  true  that  I  am  content,  even  happy,"  he  asserted, 
"in  spite  of  my  wish  to  live.  If  there  is  any  secret,  it  lies, 
I  think,  in  the  struggle  for  an  open  mind,  in  the  keeping  alive 
of  a  desire  to  know  more  and  more.  That  desire,  strangely 
enough,  hasn't  lost  its  strength.  We  don't  know  whether 
there  is  a  future  life,  but  if  there  is,  I  think  it  must  be  a  con 
tinuation  of  this."  He  paused.  "  I  told  you  I  was  glad  you 
came  in  —  I've  been  thinking  of  you,  and  I  saw  you  in  the 
hall  last  night.  You  ask  what  there  is  for  you  —  I'll  tell 
you,  —  the  new  generation." 

"  The  new  generation." 

"That's  the  task  of  every  man  and  woman  who  wakes  up. 
I've  come  to  see  how  little  can  be  done  for  the  great  majority 
of  those  who  have  reached  our  age.  It's  hard  —  but  it's 
true.  Superstition,  sentiment,  the  habit  of  wrong  thinking  — 
or  of  not  thinking  at  all  have  struck  in  too  deep,  the  habit  of 
unreasoning  acceptance  of  authority  is  too  paralyzing.  Some 
may  be  stung  back  into  life,  spurred  on  to  find  out  what  the 
world  really  is,  but  not  many.  The  hope  lies  in  those  who  are 
coming  after  us  —  we  must  do  for  them  what  wasn't  done 
for  us.  We  really  didn't  have  much  of  a  chance,  Paret. 
What  did  our  instructors  at  Harvard  know  about  the  age  that 
was  dawning?  what  did  anybody  know?  You  can  educate 
yourself  —  or  rather  reeducate  yourself.  All  this"  —  and 
he  waved  his  hand  towards  his  bookshelves  —  "  all  this  has 
sprung  up  since  you  and  I  were  at  Cambridge ;  if  we  don't 
try  to  become  familiar  with  it,  if  we  fail  to  grasp  the  point 
of  view  from  which  it's  written,  there's  little  hope  for  us.  Go 
away  from  all  this  and  get  straightened  out,  make  yourself 
acquainted  with  the  modern  trend  in  literature  and  criticism,. 


484  A  FAR   COUNTRY 

with  modern  history,  find  out  what's  being  done  in  the  field 
of  education,  read  the  modern  sciences,  especially  biology, 
and  psychology  and  sociology,  and  try  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
the  fundamental  human  needs  underlying  such  phenomena  as 
the  labour  and  woman's  movements.  God  knows  I've  just 
begun  to  get  my  glimpse,  and  I've  floundered  around  ever 
since  I  left  college.  ...  I  don't  mean  to  say  we  can  ever 
see  the  whole,  but  we  can  get  a  clew,  an  idea,  and  pass  it  on 
to  our  children.  You  have  children,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  I  said.  .  .  . 

He  said  nothing  —  he  seemed  to  be  looking  out  of  the 
window. 

"Then  the  scientific  point  of  view  in  your  opinion  hasn't 
done  away  with  religion  ?  "  I  asked  presently. 

"The  scientific  point  of  view  is  the  religious  point  of  view," 
he  said  earnestly,  "because  it's  the  only  self-respecting  point 
of  view.  I  can't  believe  that  God  intended  to  make  a  crea 
ture  who  would  not  ultimately  weigh  his  beliefs  with  his 
reason  instead  of  accepting  them  blindly.  That's  immoral, 
if  you  like  —  especially  in  these  days." 

"And  are  there,  then,  no  'over-beliefs'?"  I  said,  re 
membering  the  expression  in  something  I  had  read. 

"That  seems  to  me  a  relic  of  the  method  of  ancient  science, 
which  was  upside  down, — a  mere  confusion  with  faith.  Faith 
and  belief  are  two  different  things ;  faith  is  the  emotion,  the 
steam,  if  you  like,  that  drives  us  on  in  our  search  for  truth. 
Theories,  at  a  stretch,  might  be  identified  with  '  over-beliefs ' 
but  when  it  comes  to  confusing  our  theories  with  facts,  in 
stead  of  recognizing  them  as  theories,  when  it  comes  to  living 
by  'over-beliefs'  that  have  no  basis  in  reason  and  observed 
facts,  —  that  is  fatal.  It's  just  the  trouble  with  so  much  of 
our  electorate  to-day  —  unreasoning  acceptance  without 
thought." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "you  admit  of  no  other  faculty  than 
reason?" 

"I  confess  that  I  don't.  A  great  many  insights  that  we 
.seem  to  get  from  what  we  call  intuition  I  think  are  due  to 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  485 

the  reason,  which  is  unconsciously  at  work.  If  there  were 
another  faculty  that  equalled  or  transcended  reason,  it  seems 
to  me  it  would  be  a  very  dangerous  thing  for  the  world's 
progress.  We'd  come  to  rely  on  it  rather  than  on  ourselves  — 
the  trouble  with  the  world  is  that  it  has  been  relying  on  it. 
Reason  is  the  mind  —  it  leaps  to  the  stars  without  realizing 
always  how  it  gets  there.  It  is  through  reason  we  get  the 
self-reliance  that  redeems  us." 

"  But  you ! "  I  exclaimed.  "  You  rely  on  something  else 
besides  reason?" 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  he  explained  gently,  "but  that  Thing 
Other-than-Ourselves  we  feel  stirring  in  us  is  power,  and  that 
power,  or  the  Source  of  it,  seems  to  have  given  us  our  reason 
for  guidance  —  if  it  were  not  so  we  shouldn't  have  a  sem 
blance  of  freedom.  For  there  is  neither  virtue  nor  develop 
ment  in  finding  the  path  if  we  are  guided.  We  do  rely  on 
that  power  for  movement  —  and  in  the  moments  when  it  is 
withdrawn  we  are  helpless.  Both  the  power  and  the  reason 
are  God's." 

"But  the  Church,"  I  was  moved  by  some  untraced  thought 
to  ask,  "you  believe  there  is  a  future  for  the  Church?" 

"A  church  of  all  those  who  disseminate  truth,  foster  open- 
mindedness,  serve  humanity  and  radiate  faith,"  he  replied 

—  but  as  though  he  were  speaking  to  himself,  not  to  me.  .  .  . 
A  few  moments  later  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 

the  woman  of  the  house  entered  to  say  that  Dr.  Hepburn  had 
arrived.  I  rose  and  shook  Krebs's  ,hand :  sheer  inability  to 
express  my  emotion  drove  me  to  commonplaces. 

"  I'll  come  in  soon  again,  if  I  may,"  I  told  him. 

"Do,  Paret,"  he  said,  "it's  done  me  good  to  talk  to  you 

—  more  good  than  you  imagine." 

I  was  unable  to  answer  him,  but  I  glanced  back  from  the 
doorway  to  see  him  smiling  after  me.  On  my  way  down  the 
stairs  I  bumped  into  the  doctor  as  he  ascended.  The  dingy 
brown  parlour  was  filled  with  men,  standing  in  groups  and 
talking  in  subdued  voices.  I  hurried  into  the  street,  and  on 
the  sidewalk  stopped  face  to  face  with  Perry  Blackwood. 


486  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Hugh!"  he  exclaimed.     "What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I  came  to  inquire  for  Krebs,"  I  answered.  "I've  seen 
him." 

"You  —  you've  been  talking  to  him?"  Perry  demanded. 

I  nodded.  He  stared  at  me  for  a  moment  with  an  aston 
ishment  to  which  I  was  wholly  indifferent.  He  did  not  seem 
to  know  just  how  to  act. 

"Well,  it  was  decent  of  you,  Hugh,  I  must  say.  How 
does  he  seem?" 

"Not  at  all  like  —  like  what  you'd  expect,  in  his  manner." 

"No,"  agreed  Perry  agitatedly,  "no,  he  wouldn't.  My 
God,  we've  lost  a  big  man  in  him." 

"I  think  we  have,"  I  said. 

He  stared  at  me  again,  gave  me  his  hand  awkwardly, 
and  went  into  the  house.  It  was  not  until  I  had  walked  the 
length  of  the  block  that  I  began  to  realize  what  a  shock  my 
presence  there  must  have  been  to  him,  with  his  head  full  of 
the  contrast  between  this  visit  and  my  former  attitude. 
Could  it  be  that  it  was  only  the  night  before  I  had  made  a 
speech  against  him  and  his  associates?  It  is  interesting 
that  my  mind  rejected  all  sense  of  anomaly  and  inconsis 
tency.  Krebs  possessed  me;  I  must  have  been  in  reality 
extremely  agitated,  but  this  sense  of  being  possessed  seemed 
a  quiet  one.  An  amazing  thing  had  happened  —  and  yet  I 
was  not  amazed.  The  Krebs  I  had  seen  was  the  man  I  had 
known  for  many  years,  the  man  I  had  ridiculed,  despised  and 
oppressed,  but  it  seemed  to  me  then  that  he  had  been  my 
friend  and  intimate  all  my  life :  more  than  that,  I  had  an  odd 
feeling  he  had  always  been  a  part  of  me,  and  that  now  had 
begun  to  take  place  a  merging  of  personality.  Nor  could 
I  feel  that  he  was  a  dying  man.  He  would  live  on.  .  .  . 

I  could  not  as  yet  sort  and  appraise,  reduce  to  order  the 
possessions  he  had  wished  to  turn  over  to  me. 

It  was  noon,  and  people  were  walking  past  me  in  the 
watery,  diluted  sunlight,  men  in  black  coats  and  top  hats 
and  women  in  bizarre,  complicated  costumes  bright  with 
colour.  I  had  reached  the  more  respectable  portion  of  the 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  48? 

city,  where  the  churches  were  emptying.  These  very  people, 
whom  not  long  ago  I  would  have  acknowledged  as  my  own 
kind,  now  seemed  mildly  animated  automatons,  wax  figures. 
The  day  was  like  hundreds  of  Sundays  I  had  known,  the 
city  familiar,  yet  passing  strange.  I  walked  like  a  ghost 
through  it.  ... 


XXVI 


ACCOMPANIED  by  young  Dr.  Strafford,  I  went  to  California. 
My  physical  illness  had  been  brief.  Dr.  Brooke  had  taken 
matters  hi  his  own  hands  and  ordered  an  absolute  rest,  after 
dwelling  at  some  length  on  the  vicious  pace  set  by  modern 
business  and  the  lack  of  consideration  and  knowledge  shown 
by  men  of  affairs  for  their  bodies.  There  was  a  limit  to  the 
wrack  and  strain  which  the  human  organism  could  stand. 
He  must  of  course  have  suspected  the  presence  of  disturb 
ing  and  disintegrating  factors,  but  he  confined  himself  to 
telling  me  that  only  an  exceptional  constitution  had  saved 
me  from  a  serious  illness  ;  he  must  in  a  way  have  compre 
hended  why  I  did  not  wish  to  go  abroad,  and  have  my  family 
join  me  on  the  Riviera,  as  Tom  Peters  proposed.  California 
had  been  my  choice,  and  Dr.  Brooke  recommended  the 
climate  of  Santa  Barbara. 

High  up  on  the  Montecito  hills  I  found  a  villa  beside 
the  gateway  of  one  of  the  deep  canons  that  furrow  the 
mountain  side,  and  day  after  day  I  lay  in  a  chair  on  the 
sunny  terrace,  with  a  continually  recurring  amazement 
at  the  brilliancy  of  my  surroundings.  In  the  early  morning 
I  looked  down  on  a  feathery  mist  hiding  the  world,  a  mist 
presently  to  be  shot  with  silver  and  sapphire-blue,  dissolved 
by  slow  enchantment  until  there  lay  revealed  the  plain 
and  the  shimmering  ocean  with  its  distant  islands  trembling 
in  the  haze.  At  sunset  my  eyes  sought  the  mountains, 
mountains  unreal,  like  glorified  scenery  of  grand  opera, 
with  violet  shadows  in  the  wooded  canon  clefts,  and  crags 
of  pink  tourmaline  and  ruby  against  the  skies.  All  day 
long  in  the  tempered  heat  flowers  blazed  around  me,  insects 
hummed,  lizards  darted  in  and  out  of  the  terrace  wall, 

488 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  489 

birds  flashed  among  the  checkered  shadows  of  the  live  oaks. 
That  grove  of  gnarled  oaks  summoned  up  before  me  visions 
of  some  classic  villa  poised  above  Grecian  seas,  shining 
amidst  dark  foliage,  the  refuge  of  forgotten  kings.  Below 
me,  on  the  slope,  the  spaced  orange  trees  were  heavy  with 
golden  fruit. 

After  a  while,  as  I  grew  stronger,  I  was  driven  down  and 
allowed  to  walk  on  the  wide  beach  that  stretched  in  front  *" 
of  the  gay  houses  facing  the  sea.  Cormorants  dived  under 
the  long  rollers  that  came  crashing  in  from  the  Pacific; 
gulls  wheeled  and  screamed  in  the  soft  wind;  alert  little 
birds  darted  here  and  there  with  incredible  swiftness,  leav 
ing  tiny  footprints  across  the  ribs  and  furrows  of  the  wet 
sand.  Far  to  the  southward  a  dark  barrier  of  mountains 
rose  out  of  the  sea.  Sometimes  I  sat  with  my  back  against 
the  dunes  watching  the  drag  of  the  outgoing  water  rolling 
the  pebbles  after  it,  making  a  gleaming  floor  for  the  light 
to  dance. 

At  first  I  could  not  bear  to  recall  the  events  that  had 
preceded  and  followed  my  visit  to  Krebs  that  Sunday 
morning.  My  illness  had  begun  that  night;  on  the  Mon 
day  Tom  Peters  had  come  to  the  Club  and  insisted  upon 
my  being  taken  to  his  house.  .  .  .  When  I  had  recovered 
sufficiently  there  had  been  rather  a  pathetic  renewal  of 
our  friendship.  Perry  came  to  see  me.  Their  attitude 
was  one  of  apprehension  not  unmixed  with  wonder;  and 
though  they  knew  of  the  existence  of  a  mental  crisis,  sus 
pected,  in  all  probability,  some  of  the  causes  of  it,  they 
refrained  carefully  from  all  comments,  contenting  them 
selves  with  telling  me  when  I  was  well  enough  that  Krebs 
had  died  quite  suddenly  that  Sunday  afternoon;  that  his 
death  —  occurring  at  such  a  crucial  moment  —  had  been 
sufficient  to  turn  the  tide  of  the  election  and  make  Edgar 
Greenhalge  mayor.  Thousands  who  had  failed  to  under 
stand  Hermann  Krebs,  but  whom  he  had  nevertheless 
stirred  and  troubled,  suddenly  awoke  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  had  elements  of  greatness.  .  .  . 


490  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

My  feelings  in  those  first  days  at  Santa  Barbara  may  be 
likened,  indeed,  to  those  of  a  man  who  has  passed  through  a 
terrible  accident  that  has  deprived  him  of  sight  or  hearing, 
and  which  he  wishes  to  forget.  What  I  was  most  conscious 
of  then  was  an  aching  sense  of  loss  —  an  ache  that  by  de 
grees  became  a  throbbing  pain  as  life  flowed  back  into  me, 
reinflaming  once  more  my  being  with  protest  and  passion, 
arousing  me  to  revolt  against  the  fate  that  had  overtaken 
me.  I  even  began  at  moments  to  feel  a  fierce  desire  to  go 
back  and  take  up  again  the  fight  from  which  I  had  been 
so  strangely  removed  —  removed  by  the  agency  of  things  still 
obscure.  I  might  get  Nancy  yet,  beat  down  her  resistance, 
overcome  her,  if  only  I  could  be  near  her  and  see  her.  But 
even  in  the  midst  of  these  surges  of  passion  I  was  conscious 
of  the  birth  of  a  new  force  I  did  not  understand,  and  which 
I  resented,  that  had  arisen  to  give  battle  to  my  passions 
and  desires.  This  struggle  was  not  mentally  reflected  as 
a  debate  between  right  and  wrong,  as  to  whether  I  should 
or  should  not  be  justified  in  taking  Nancy  if  I  could  get 
her:  it  seemed  as  though  some  new  and  small  yet  dogged 
intruder  had  forced  an  entrance  into  me,  an  insignificant 
pigmy  who  did  not  hesitate  to  bar  the  pathway  of  the  re 
viving  giant  of  my  desires.  These  contests  sapped  my 
strength.  It  seemed  as  though  in  my  isolation  I  loved 
Nancy,  I  missed  her  more  than  ever,  and  the  flavour  she 
gave  to  life. 

Then  Hermann  Krebs  began  to  press  himself  on  me.  I 
use  the  word  as  expressive  of  those  early  resentful  feelings, 
—  I  rather  pictured  him  then  as  the  personification  of  an 
hostile  element  in  the  universe  that  had  brought  about 
my  miseries  and  accomplished  my  downfall;  I  attributed 
the  disagreeable  thwarting  of  my  impulses  to  his  agency; 
I  did  not  wish  to  think  of  him,  for  he  stood  somehow  for  a 
vague  future  I  feared  to  contemplate.  Yet  the  illusion  of 
his  presence,  once  begun,  continued  to  grow  upon  me,  and 
I  find  myself  utterly  unable  to  describe  that  struggle  in 
which  he  seemed  to  be  fighting  as  against  myself  for  my 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  491 

confidence;  that  process  whereby  he  gradually  grew  as 
real  to  me  as  though  he  still  lived  —  until  I  could  almost 
hear  his  voice  and  see  his  smile.  At  moments  I  resisted 
wildly,  as  though  my  survival  depended  on  it;  at  other 
moments  he  seemed  to  bring  me  peace.  One  day  I  recalled 
as  vividly  as  though  it  were  taking  place  again  that  last 
time  I  had  been  with  him;  I  seemed  once  more  to  be 
listening  to  the  calm  yet  earnest  talk  ranging  over  so  many 
topics,  politics  and  government,  economics  and  science 
and  religion.  I  did  not  yet  grasp  the  synthesis  he  had 
made  of  them  all,  but  I  saw  them  now  all  focussed  in  him  — 
elements  he  had  drawn  from  human  lives  and  human  ex 
periences.  I  think  it  was  then  I  first  felt  the  quickenings 
of  a  new  life  to  be  born  in  travail  and  pain.  .  .  .  Wearied, 
yet  exalted,  I  sank  down  on  a  stone  bench  and  gazed  out  at 
the  little  island  of  Santa  Cruz  afloat  on  the  shimmering  sea. 

I  have  mentioned  my  inability  to  depict  the  terrible 
struggle  that  went  on  in  my  soul.  It  seems  strange  that 
Nietzsche  —  that  most  ruthless  of  philosophers  to  the 
romantic  mind !  —  should  express  it  for  me.  "  The  genius 
of  the  heart,  from  contact  with  which  every  man  goes  away 
richer,  not  'blessed'  and  overcome,  .  .  .  but  richer  himself, 
fresher  to  himself  than  before,  opened  up,  breathed  upon 
and  sounded  by  a  thawing  wind ;  more  uncertain,  perhaps, 
more  delicate,  more  bruised;  but  full  of  hopes  which  as 
yet  lack  names,  full  of  a  new  will  and  striving,  full  of  a  new 
unwillingness  and  counterstriving."  .  .  . 

Such  was  my  experience  with  Hermann  Krebs.  How 
keenly  I  remember  that  new  unwillingness  and  counter- 
striving  !  In  spite  of  the  years  it  has  not  wholly  died  down, 
even  to-day.  .  .  . 


Almost  coincident  with  these  quickenings  of  which  I  have 
spoken  was  the  consciousness  of  a  hunger  stronger  than  the 
craving  for  bread  and  meat,  and  I  began  to  meditate  on  my 
ignorance,  on  the  utter  inadequacy  and  insufficiency  of  my 


492  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

early  education,  on  my  neglect  of  the  new  learning  during 
the  years  that  had  passed  since  I  left  Harvard.  And  I 
remembered  Krebs's  words  —  that  We  must  "reeducate 
ourselves."  What  did  I  know  ?  A  system  of  law,  inherited 
from  another  social  order,  that  was  utterly  unable  to  cope 
with  the  complexities  and  miseries  and  injustices  of  a  modern 
industrial  world.  I  had  spent  my  days  in  mastering  an 
inadequate  and  archaic  code  —  why  ?  in  order  that  I  might 
learn  how  to  evade  it  ?  This  in  itself  condemned  it.  What 
did  I  know  of  We?  of  the  shining  universe  that  surrounded 
me?  What  did  I  know  of  the  insect  and  the  flower,  of  the 
laws  that  moved  the  planets  and  made  incandescent  the 
suns?  of  the  human  body,  of  the  human  soul  and  its  in 
stincts?  Was  this  knowledge  acquired  at  such  cost  of 
labour  and  life  and  love  by  my  fellow-men  of  so  little  worth 
to  me  that  I  could  ignore  it?  declare  that  it  had  no  signifi 
cance  for  me?  no  bearing  on  my  life  and  conduct?  If 
I  were  to  rise  and  go  forward  —  and  I  now  felt  something 
like  a  continued  impulse,  hi  spite  of  relaxations  and  revolts 
—  I  must  master  this  knowledge,  it  must  be  my  guide, 
form  the  basis  of  my  creed.  I  —  who  never  had  had  a 
creed,  never  felt  the  need  of  one!  For  lack  of  one  I  had 
been  rudely  jolted  out  of  the  frail  shell  I  had  thought  so 
secure,  and  stood,  as  it  were,  naked  and  shivering  to  the 
storms,  staring  at  a  world  that  was  no  function  of  me,  after 
all.  My  problem,  indeed,  was  how  to  become  a  function  of 
it.  .  .  . 

I  resolved  upon  a  course  of  reading,  but  it  was  a  question 
what  books  to  get.  Krebs  could  have  told  me,  if  he  had 
lived.  I  even  thought  once  of  writing  Perry  Blackwood  to 
ask  him  to  make  a  list  of  the  volumes  in  Krebs's  little  library ; 
but  I  was  ashamed  to  do  this. 

Dr.  Strafford  still  remained  with  me.  Not  many  years 
out  of  the  medical  school,  he  had  inspired  me  with  a  liking 
for  him  and  a  respect  for  his  profession,  and  when  he  informed 
me  one  day  that  he  could  no  longer  conscientiously  accept 
the  sum  I  was  paying  him,  I  begged  him  to  stay  on.  He  was 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  493 

a  big  and  wholesome  young  man,  companionable,  yet  quiet 
and  unobtrusive,  watchful  without  appearing  to  be  so,  with 
the  innate  as  well  as  the  cultivated  knowledge  of  psychology 
characteristic  of  the  best  modern  physicians.  When  I  grew 
better  I  came  to  feel  that  he  had  given  his  whole  mind  to  the 
study  of  my  case,  though  he  never  betrayed  it  in  his  con 
versation. 

"Strafford,"  I  said  to  him  one  morning  with  such  an  air 
of  unconcern  as  I  could  muster,  "  I've  an  idea  I'd  like  to  read 
a  little  science.  Could  you  recommend  a  work  on  biology  ?  " 

I  chose  biology  because  I  thought  he  would  know  something 
about  it. 

"Popular  biology,  Mr.  Paret?" 

"Well,  not  too  popular,"  I  smiled.  "I  think  it  would  do 
me  good  to  use  my  mind,  to  chew  on  something.  Besides, 
you  can  help  me  over  the  tough  places." 

He  returned  that  afternoon  with  two  books. 

"I've  been  rather  fortunate  in  getting  these,"  he  said. 
"  One  is  fairly  elementary.  They  had  it  at  the  library.  And 
the  other —  "  he  paused  delicately,  "I  didn't  know  whether 
you  might  be  interested  in  the  latest  speculations  on  the  sub 
ject." 

"Speculations?"  I  repeated/ 

"  Well,  the  philosophy  of  it."  He  almost  achieved  a  blush 
under  his  tan.  He  held  out  the  second  book  on  the  phi 
losophy  of  the  organism.  "  It's  the  work  of  a  German  scien 
tist  who  stands  rather  high.  I  read  it  last  winter,  and  it 
interested  me.  I  got  it  from  a  clergyman  I  know  who  is 
spending  the  winter  in  Santa  Barbara." 

"A  clergyman!" 

Strafford  laughed.  "An  'advanced'  clergyman,"  he  ex 
plained.  "Oh,  a  lot  of  them  are  reading  science  now.  I 
think  it's  pretty  decent  of  them." 

I  looked  at  Strafford,  who  towered  six  feet  three,  and  it 
suddenly  struck  me  that  he  might  be  one  of  the  forerunners 
of  a  type  our  universities  were  about  to  turn  out.  I  wondered 
what  he  believed.  Of  one  thing  I  was  sure,  that  he  was  not 


494  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

in  the  medical  profession  to  make  money.  That  was  a  faith 
in  itself. 

I  began  with  the  elementary  work. 

"You'd  better  borrow  a  Century  Dictionary,"  I  said. 

"That's  easy,"  he  said,  and  actually  achieved  it,  with  the 
clergyman's  aid. 

The  absorption  in  which  I  fought  my  way  through  those 
books  may  prove  interesting  to  future  generations,  who,  at 
Sunday-school  age,  when  the  fable  of  Adam  and  Eve  was 
painfully  being  drummed  into  me  (without  any  mention  of  its 
application),  will  be  learning  to  think  straight,  acquiring 
easily  in  early  youth  what  I  failed  to  learn  until  after  forty. 
And  think  of  all  the  trouble  and  tragedy  that  will  have 
been  averted.  It  is  true  that  I  had  read  some  biology  at 
Cambridge,  which  I  had  promptly  forgotten ;  it  had  not  been 
especially  emphasized  by  my  instructors  as  related  to  life  — 
certainly  not  as  related  to  religion:  such  incidents  as  that  of 
Adam  and  Eve  occupied  the  religious  field  exclusively.  I  had 
been  compelled  to  commit  to  memory,  temporarily,  the 
matter  in  those  books;  but  what  I  now  began  to  perceive 
was  that  the  matter  was  secondary  compared  to  the  mew 
point  of  science  —  and  this  had  been  utterly  neglected.  As 
I  read,  I  experienced  all  the  excitement  of  an  old-fashioned 
romance,  but  of  a  romance  of  such  significance  as  to  touch  the 
very  springs  of  existence ;  and  above  all  I  was  impressed  with 
the  integrity  of  the  scientific  method  —  an  integrity  com 
mensurate  with  the  dignity  of  man  —  that  scorned  to  quibble 
to  make  out  a  case,  to  affirm  something  that  could  not  be 
proved. 

Little  by  little  I  became  familiar  with  the  principles  of 
embryonic  evolution,  ontogeny,  and  of  biological  evolution, 
phylogeny ;  realized,  for  the  first  time,  my  own  history  and 
that  of  the  ancestors  from  whom  I  had  developed  and  de 
scended.  I,  this  marvellously  complicated  being,  torn  by  de 
sires  and  despairs,  was  the  result  of  the  union  of  two  mi 
croscopic  cells.  "All  living  things  come  from  the  egg,"  — 
such  had  been  Harvey's  dictum.  The  result  was  like  the 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  495 

tonic  of  a  cold  douche.  I  began  to  feel  cleansed  and  puri 
fied,  as  though  something  sticky-sweet  which  all  my  life 
had  clung  to  me  had  been  washed  away.  Yet  a  question 
arose,  an  insistent  question  that  forever  presses  itself  on 
the  mind  of  man;  how  could  these  apparently  chemical 
and  mechanical  processes,  which  the  author  of  the  book 
contented  himself  with  recording,  account  for  me?  The 
spermia  darts  for  the  egg,  and  pierces  it;  personal  history 
begins.  But  what  mysterious  shaping  force  is  it  that  re 
peats  in  the  individual  the  history  of  the  race,  supervises 
the  orderly  division  of  the  cells,  by  degrees  directs  the 
symmetry,  sets  aside  the  skeleton  and  digestive  tract  and 
supervises  the  structure  ? 

I  took  up  the  second  book,  that  on  the  philosophy  of  the 
organism,  to  read  in  its  preface  that  a  much-to-be-honoured 
British  nobleman  had  established  a  foundation  of  lectures  in 
a  Scotch  University  for  forwarding  the  study  of  a  Natural 
Theology.  The  term  possessed  me.  Unlike  the  old  theology 
woven  of  myths  and  a  fanciful  philosophy  of  the  decadent 
period  of  Greece,  natural  theology  was  founded  on  science 
itself,  and  scientists  were  among  those  who  sought  to  develop 
it.  Here  was  a  synthesis  that  made  a  powerful  appeal,  one 
of  the  many  signs  and  portents  of  a  new  era  of  which  I  was 
dimly  becoming  cognizant ;  and  now  that  I  looked  for  signs, 
I  found  them  everywhere,  in  my  young  Doctor,  in  Krebs, 
in  references  in  the  texts ;  indications  of  a  new  order  beginning 
to  make  itself  felt  in  a  muddled,  chaotic  human  world,  which 
might  —  which  must  have  a  parallel  with  the  order  that  re 
vealed  itself  in  the  egg !  Might  not  both,  physical  and  social, 
be  due  to  the  influence  of  the  same  invisible,  experimenting, 
creating  Hand  ? 

My  thoughts  lingered  lovingly  on  this  theology  so  well 
named  "  natural,"  on  its  conscientiousness,  its  refusal  to  affirm 
what  it  did  not  prove,  on  its  lack  of  dogmatic  dictums  and 
infallible  revelations;  yet  it  gave  me  the  vision  of  a  new 
sanction  whereby  man  might  order  his  life,  a  sanction  from 
which  was  eliminated  fear  and  superstition  and  romantic 


496  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

hope,  a  sanction  whose  doctrines  —  unlike  those  of  the  senti 
mental  theology  —  did  not  fly  in  the  face  of  human  instincts 
and  needs.  Nor  was  it  a  theology  devoid  of  inspiration  and 
poetry,  though  poetry  might  be  called  its  complement. 
With  all  that  was  beautiful  and  true  in  the  myths  dear  to 
mankind  it  did  not  conflict,  annulling  only  the  vicious  dog 
matism  of  literal  interpretation.  In  this  connection  I  re 
membered  something  that  Krebs  had  said  —  in  our  talk  — 
about  poetry  and  art,  —  that  these  were  emotion,  religion 
expressed  by  the  tools  reason  had  evolved.  Music,  he  had 
declared,  came  nearest  to  the  cry  of  the  human  soul.  .  .  . 

That  theology  cleared  for  faith  an  open  road,  made  of  faith 
a  reasonable  thing,  yet  did  not  rob  it  of  a  sense  of  high  adven 
ture  ;  cleansed  it  of  the  taints  of  thrift  and  selfish  concern. 
In  this  reamrmation  of  vitalism  there  might  be  a  future,  yes, 
an  individual  future,  yet  it  was  far  from  the  smug  conception 
of  salvation.  Here  was  a  faith  conferred  by  the  freedom  of 
truth,  a  faith  that  lost  and  regained  itself  in  life ;  it  was  dy 
namic  hi  its  operation ;  for,  as  Lessing  said,  the  searching  after 
truth,  and  not  its  possession,  gives  happiness  to  man.  In  the 
words  of  an  American  scientist,  taken  from  his  book  on  Hered 
ity,  "The  evolutionary  idea  has  forced  man  to  consider  the 
probable  future  of  his  own  race  on  earth  and  to  take  measures 
to  control  that  future,  a  matter  he  had  previously  left  largely 
to  fate." 

Here  indeed  was  another  sign  of  the  times,  to  find  in  a 
strictly  scientific  work  a  sentence  truly  religious !  As  I  con 
tinued  to  read  these  works,  I  found  them  suffused  with  reli 
gion,  religion  of  a  kind  and  quality  I  had  not  imagined.  The 
birthright  of  the  spirit  of  man  was  freedom,  freedom  to  experi 
ment,  to  determine,  to  create  —  to  create  himself,  to  create 
society  in  the  image  of  God !  Spiritual  creation  the  function 
of  cooperative  man  through  the  coming  ages,  the  task  that 
was  to  make  him  divine.  Here  indeed  was  the  germ  of  a  new 
sanction,  of  a  new  motive,  of  a  new  religion  that  strangely 
harmonized  with  the  concepts  of  the  old — once  the  dynamic 
power  of  these  was  revealed. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  497 


I  had  been  thinking  of  my  family  —  of  my  family  in  terms 
of  Matthew  —  and  yet  with  a  growing  yearning  that  em 
braced  them  all.  I  had  not  informed  Maude  of  my  illness, 
and  I  had  managed  to  warn  Tom  Peters  not  to  do  so.  I  had 
simply  written  her  that  after  the  campaign  I  had  gone  for  a 
rest  to  California ;  yet  in  her  letters  to  me,  after  this  informa 
tion  had  reached  her,  I  detected  a  restrained  anxiety  and 
affection  that  troubled  me.  Sequences  of  words  curiously 
convey  meanings  and  implications  that  transcend  their  literal 
sense,  true  thoughts  and  feelings  are  difficult  to  disguise 
even  in  written  speech.  Could  it  be  possible  after  all  that 
had  happened  that  Maude  still  loved  me?  I  continually 
put  the  thought  away  from  me,  but  continually  it  returned  to 
haunt  me.  Suppose  Maude  could  not  help  loving  me,  in 
spite  of  my  weaknesses  and  faults,  even  as  I  loved  Nancy 
in  spite  of  hers?  Love  is  no  logical  thing. 

It  was  Matthew  I  wanted,  Matthew  of  whom  I  thought, 
and  trivial,  long-forgotten  incidents  of  the  past  kept  recur 
ring  to  me  constantly.  I  still  received*  his  weekly  letters ; 
but  he  did  not  ask  why,  since  I  had  taken  a  vacation,  I  had 
not  come  over  to  them.  He  represented  the  medium,  the 
link  between  Maude  and  me  that  no  estrangement,  no  sep 
aration  could  break. 

All  this  new  vision  of  mine  was  for  him,  for  the  coming 
generation,  the  soil  in  which  it  must  be  sown,  the  Americans 
of  the  future.  And  who  so  well  as  Matthew,  sensitive  yet 
brave,  would  respond  to  it  ?  I  wished  not  only  to  give  him 
what  I  had  begun  to  grasp,  to  study  with  him,  to  be  his  com 
panion  and  friend,  but  to  spare  him,  if  possible,  some  of  my 
own  mistakes  and  sufferings  and  punishments.  But  could  I 
go  back  ?  Happy  coincidences  of  desires  and  convictions  had 
been  so  characteristic  of  that  other  self  I  had  been  struggling 
to  cast  off :  I  had  so  easily  been  persuaded,  when  I  had  had 
a  chance  of  getting  Nancy,  that  it  was  the  right  thing  to  do ! 
And  now,  in  my  loneliness,  was  I  not  growing  just  as  eager 
2x 


498  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

to  be  convinced  that  it  was  my  duty  to  go  back  to  the  family 
which  in  the  hour  of  self-sufficiency  I  had  cast  off?  I  had 
believed  in  divorce  then  —  why  not  now?  Well,  I  still 
believed  in  it.  I  had  thought  of  a  union  with  Nancy  as  some 
thing  that  would  bring  about  the  "  self-realization  that  springs 
from  the  gratification  of  a  great  passion,"  —  an  appealing 
phrase  I  had  read  somewhere.  But,  it  was  at  least  a  favour 
able  symptom  that  I  was  willing  now  to  confess  that  the 
"self-realization"  had  been  a  secondary  and  sentimental 
consideration,  a  rosy,  self-created  halo  to  give  a  moral  and 
religious  sanction  to  my  desire.  Was  I  not  trying  to  do  that 
very  thing  now?  It  tortured  me  to  think  so;  I  strove  to 
achieve  a  detached  consideration  of  the  problem,  —  to  arrive 
at  length  at  a  thought  that  seemed  illuminating :  that  the 
"  wrongness"  or  "  Tightness,"  utility  and  happiness  of  all  such 
unions  depend  upon  whether  or  not  they  become  a  part 
of  the  woof  and  warp  of  the  social  fabric;  in  other  words, 
whether  the  gratification  of  any  particular  love  by  divorce 
and  remarriage  does  or  does  not  tend  to  destroy  a  portion  of 
that  fabric.  Nancy  certainly  would  have  been  justified  in 
divorce.  It  did  not«seem  in  the  retrospect  that  I  would  have 
been:  surely  not  if,  after  I  had  married  Nancy,  I  had  de 
veloped  this  view  of  life  that  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  true  view. 
I  should  have  been  powerless  to  act  upon  it.  But  the  chances 
were  I  should  not  have  developed  it,  since  it  would  seem  that 
any  salvation  for  me  at  least  must  come  precisely  through 
suffering,  through  not  getting  what  I  wanted.  Was  this 
equivocating  ? 

My  mistake  had  been  in  marrying  Maude  instead  of  Nancy 
—  a  mistake  largely  due  to  my  saturation  with  a  false  idea  of 
life.  Would  not  the  attempt  to  cut  loose  from  the  conse 
quences  of  that  mistake  in  my  individual  case  have  been 
futile  ?  But  there  was  a  remedy  for  it  —  the  remedy  Krebs 
had  suggested :  I  might  still  prevent  my  children  from  mak 
ing  such  a  mistake,  I  might  help  to  create  in  them  what  I 
might  have  been,  and  thus  find  a  solution  for  myself.  My 
errors  would  then  assume  a  value. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  499 

But  the  question  tortured  me:  would  Maude  wish  it? 
Would  it  be  fair  to  her  if  she  did  not  ?  By  my  long  neglect 
I  had  forfeited  the  right  to  go.  And  would  she  agree  with 
my  point  of  view  if  she  did  permit  me  to  stay  ?  I  had  less 
concern  on  this  score,  a  feeling  that  that  development  of  hers, 
which  once  had  irritated  me,  was  in  the  same  direction  as  my 
own.  .  .  . 

I  have  still  strangely  to  record  moments  when,  in  spite  of 
the  aspirations  I  had  achieved,  of  the  redeeming  vision  I 
had  gained,  at  the  thought  of  returning  to  her  I  revolted. 
At  such  times  recollections  came  into  my  mind  of  those 
characteristics  in  her  that  had  seemed  most  responsible 
for  my  alienation.  .  .  .  That  demon  I  had  fed  so  mightily 
still  lived.  By  what  right  —  he  seemed  to  ask  —  had  I 
nourished  him  all  these  years  if  now  I  meant  to  starve  him  ? 
Thus  sometimes  he  defied  me,  took  on  Protean  guises, 
blustered,  insinuated,  cajoled,  managed  to  make  me  believe 
that  to  starve  him  would  be  to  starve  myself,  to  sap  all 
there  was  of  power  in  me.  Let  me  try  and  see  if  I  could 
do  it !  Again  he  whispered,  to  what  purpose  had  I  gained 
my  liberty,  if  now  I  renounced  it  ?  I  could  not  live  in 
fetters,  even  though  the  fetters  should  be  self-imposed.  I 
was  lonely  now,  but  I  would  get  over  that,  and  life  lay  before 
me  still. 

Fierce  and  tenacious,  steel  in  the  cruelty  of  his  desires, 
fearful  in  the  havoc  he  had  wrought,  could  he  be  subdued? 
Foiled,  he  tore  and  rent  me.  .  .  . 

One  morning  I  rode  up  through  the  shady  canon,  fragrant 
with  bay,  to  the  open  slopes  stained  smoky-blue  by  the  wild 
lilac,  where  the  twisted  madrona  grows.  As  I  sat  gazing 
down  on  tiny  headlands  jutting  out  into  a  vast  ocean  my 
paralyzing  indecision  came  to  an  end.  I  turned  my  horse 
down  the  trail  again.  I  had  seen  at  last  that  life  was  bigger 
than  I,  bigger  than  Maude,  bigger  than  our  individual 
wishes  and  desires.  I  felt  as  though  heavy  shackles  had 
been  struck  from  me.  As  I  neared  the  house  I  spied  my 
young  doctor  in  the  garden  path,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 


500  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

watching  a  humming-bird  poised  over  the  poppies.  He 
greeted  me  with  a  look  that  was  not  wholly  surprise  at  mj 
early  return,  that  seemed  to  have  in  it  something  of  gladness. 

"Straffbrd,"  I  said,  "I've  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to 
Europe." 

**I  have  been  thinking  for  some  time,  Mr.  Paret,"  he 
replied,  "that  a  sea-voyage  is  just  what  you  need  to  set 
you  on  your  feet." 


I  started  eastward  the  next  morning,  arriving  in  New 
York  in  time  to  catch  one  of  the  big  liners  sailing  for  Havre. 
On  my  way  across  the  continent  I  decided  to  send  a  cable 
to  Maude  at  Paris,  since  it  were  only  fair  to  give  her  an 
opportunity  to  reflect  upon  the  manner  in  which  she  would 
meet  the  situation.  Save  for  an  impatience  which  at  mo 
ments  I  restrained  with  difficulty,  the  moods  that  succeeded 
one  another  as  I  journeyed  did  not  differ  greatly  from  those 
I  had  experienced  in  the  past  month.  I  was  alternately 
exalted  and  depressed;  I  hoped  and  doubted  and  feared; 
my  courage,  my  confidence  rose  and  fell.  And  yet  I  was 
aware  of  the  nascence  within  me  of  an  element  that  gave 
me  a  stability  I  had  hitherto  lacked:  I  had  made  my  de 
cision,  and  I  felt  the  stronger  for  it. 

It  was  early  in  March.  The  annual  rush  of  my  country 
men  and  -women  for  foreign  shores  had  not  as  yet  begun, 
the  huge  steamer  was  far  from  crowded.  The  faint  throbbing 
of  her  engines  as  she  glided  out  on  the  North  River  tide  found 
its  echo  within  me  as  I  leaned  on  the  heavy  rail  and  watched 
the  towers  of  the  city  receding  in  the  mist;  they  became 
blurred  and  ghostlike,  fantastic  in  the  grey  distance,  sad, 
appealing  with  a  strange  beauty  and  power.  Once  the 
sight  of  them,  sunlit,  standing  forth  sharply  against  the 
high  brae  of  American  skies,  had  stirred  in  me  that  passion 
for  wealth  and  power  of  which  they  were  so  marvellously 
and  uniquely  the  embodiment.  I  recalled  the  bright  day 
of  my  home-coming  with  Maude,  when  she  too  had  felt 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  501 

that  passion  drawing  me  away  from  her,  after  the  briefest 
of  possessions.  .  .  .  Well,  I  had  had  it,  the  power.  I 
had  stormed  and  gained  entrance  to  the  citadel  itself.  I 
might  have  lived  here  in  New  York,  secure,  defiant  of  a 
veering  public  opinion  that  envied  while  it  strove  to  sting. 
Why  was  I  flinging  it  all  away?  Was  this  a  sudden  resolu 
tion  of  mine,  forced  by  events,  precipitated  by  a  failure  to 
achieve  what  of  all  things  on  earth  I  had  most  desired? 
or  was  it  the  inevitable  result  of  the  development  of  the 
Hugh  Paret  of  earlier  days,  who  was  not  meant  for  that 
kind  of  power? 

The  vibration  of  the  monster  ship  increased  to  a  strong, 
electric  pulsation,  the  water  hummed  along  her  sides,  she 
felt  the  swell  of  the  open  sea.  A  fine  rain  began  to  fall  that 
hid  the  land  —  yes,  and  the  life  I  was  leaving.  I  made 
my  way  across  the  glistening  deck  to  the  saloon  where,  my 
newspapers  and  periodicals  neglected,  I  sat  all  the  morning 
beside  a  window  gazing  out  at  the  limited,  vignetted  zone 
of  waters  around  the  ship.  We  were  headed  for  the  Old 
World.  The  wind  rose,  the  rain  became  pelting,  mingling 
with  the  spume  of  the  whitecaps  racing  madly  past :  within 
were  warmth  and  luxury,  electric  lights,  open  fires,  easy 
chairs,  and  men  and  women  reading,  conversing  as  uncon 
cernedly  as  though  the  perils  of  the  deep  had  ceased  to  be. 
In  all  this  I  found  an  impelling  interest ;  the  naive  capacity 
in  me  for  wonder,  so  long  dormant,  had  been  marvellously 
opened  up  once  more.  I  no  longer  thought  of  myself  as 
the  important  man  of  affairs;  and  when  in  the  progress  of 
the  voyage  I  was  accosted  by  two  or  three  men  I  had  met 
and  by  others  who  had  heard  of  me  it  was  only  to  fed  amaze 
ment  at  the  remoteness  I  now  felt  from  a  world  whose  reali 
ties  were  stocks  and  bonds,  railroads  and  corporations  and 
the  detested  new  politics  so  inimical  to  the  smooth  conduct 
of  "business." 

It  all  sounded  like  a  language  I  had  forgotten. 

It  was  not  until  near  the  end  of  the  passage  that  we  ran 
out  of  the  storm.  A  morning  came  when  I  went  on  deck 


502  A   FAR  COUNTRY 

to  survey  spaces  of  a  blue  and  white  sea  swept  by  the  white 
March  sunlight;  to  discern  at  length  against  the  horizon 
toward  which  we  sped  a  cloud  of  the  filmiest  and  most 
delicate  texture  and  design.  Suddenly  I  divined  that  the 
cloud  was  France!  Little  by  little,  as  I  watched,  it  took 
on  substance.  I  made  out  headlands  and  cliffs,  and  then 
we  were  coasting  beside  them.  That  night  I  should  be  in 
Paris  with  Maude.  My  bag  was  packed,  my  steamer  trunk 
closed.  I  strayed  about  the  decks,  in  and  out  of  the  saloons, 
wondering  at  the  indifference  of  other  passengers  who  sat 
reading  in  steamer-chairs  or  wrote  last  letters  to  be  posted 
at  Havre.  I  was  filled  with  impatience,  anticipation,  — 
yes,  with  anxiety  concerning  the  adventure  that  was  now  so 
imminent;  with  wavering  doubts.  Had  I  done  the  wisest 
thing  after  all?  I  had  the  familiar  experience  that  often 
comes  just  before  reunion  after  absence  of  recalling  intimate 
and  forgotten  impressions  of  those  whom  I  was  about  to 
see  again,  the  tones  of  their  voices,  little  gestures.  .  .  . 
How  would  they  receive  me  ? 

The  great  ship  had  slowed  down  and  was  entering  the 
harbour,  carefully  threading  her  way  amongst  smaller  craft, 
the  passengers  lining  the  rails  and  gazing  at  the  animated 
scene,  at  the  quaint  and  cheerful  French  city  bathed  in 
sunlight.  ...  I  had  reached  the  dock  and  was  making 
my  way  through  the  hurrying  and  shifting  groups  toward 
the  steamer  train  when  I  saw  Maude.  She  was  standing  a 
little  aside,  scanning  the  faces  that  passed  her. 

I  remember  how  she  looked  at  me,  expectantly,  yet  timidly, 
almost  fearfully.  I  kissed  her. 

"  You've  come  to  meet  me ! "  I  exclaimed  stupidly.  "  How 
are  the  children  ?  " 

"They're  very  well,  Hugh.  They  wanted  to  come,  too, 
but  I  thought  it  better  not." 

Her  restraint  struck  me  as  extraordinary;  and  while  I 
was  thankful  for  the  relief  it  brought  to  a  situation  which 
might  have  been  awkward,  I  was  conscious  of  resenting  it  a 
little.  I  was  impressed  and  puzzled.  As  I  walked  along 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  503 

the  platform  beside  her  she  seemed  almost  a  stranger:  I 
had  difficulty  in  realizing  that  she  was  my  wife,  the  mother 
of  my  children.  Her  eyes  were  clear,  more  serious  than  I 
recalled  them,  and  her  physical  as  well  as  her  moral  tone 
seemed  to  have  improved.  Her  cheeks  glowed  with  health, 
and  she  wore  a  becoming  suit  of  dark  blue. 

"Did  you  have  a  good  trip,  Hugh?"  she  asked. 

"Splendid,"  I  said,  forgetting  the  storm.  We  took  our 
seats  in  an  empty  compartment.  Was  she  glad  to  see  me? 
She  had  come  all  the  way  from  Paris  to  meet  me !  All  the 
embarrassment  seemed  to  be  on  my  side.  Was  this  com 
posure  a  controlled  one?  or  had  she  indeed  attained  to  the 
self-sufficiency  her  manner  and  presence  implied  ?  Such  were 
the  questions  running  through  my  head. 

"You've  really  liked  Paris?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  Hugh,  and  it's  been  very  good  for  us  all.  Of  course 
the  boys  like  America  better,  but  they've  learned  many 
things  they  wouldn't  have  learned  at  home;  they  both 
speak  French,  and  Biddy  too.  Even  I  have  improved. 

"  I'm  sure  of  it,"  I  said. 

She  flushed. 

"And  what  else  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Oh,  going  to  galleries.  Matthew  often  goes  with  me. 
I  think  he  quite  appreciates  the  pictures.  Sometimes  I 
take  him  to  the  theatre,  too,  the  Fransais.  Both  boys 
ride  in  the  Bois  with  a  riding  master.  It's  been  rather  a 
restricted  life  for  them,  but  it  won't  have  hurt  them.  It's 
good  discipline.  We  have  little  excursions  in  an  automobile 
on  fine  days  to  Versailles  and  other  places  of  interest  around 
Paris,  and  Matthew  and  I  have  learned  a  lot  of  history.  I 
have  a  professor  of  literature  from  the  Sorbonne  come  in 
three  times  a  week  to  give  me  lessons." 

"I  didn't  know  you  cared  for  literature." 

"I  didn't  know  it  either."  She  smiled.  "Matthew 
loves  it.  Monsieur  Despard  declares  he  has  quite  a  gift  for 
language." 

Maude  had  already  begun  Matthew's  education ! 


504  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"You  see  a  few  people?"  I  inquired. 

"A  few.  And  they  have  been  very  kind  to  us.  The 
Buffons,  whom  I  met  at  Etretat,  and  some  of  their  friends, 
mostly  educated  French  people." 

The  little  railway  carriage  in  which  we  sat  rocked  with 
speed  as  we  flew  through  the  French  landscape.  I  caught 
glimpses  of  solid,  Norman  farm  buildings,  of  towers  and 
keeps  and  delicate  steeples,  and  quaint  towns;  of  bare 
poplars  swaying  before  the  March  gusts,  of  green  fields 
ablaze  in  the  afternoon  sun.  I  took  it  all  in  distractedly. 
Here  was  Maude  beside  me,  but  a  Maude  I  had  difficulty  in 
recognizing,  whom  I  did  not  understand:  who  talked  of  a 
life  she  had  built  up  for  herself  and  that  seemed  to  satisfy 
her;  one  with  which  I  had  nothing  to  do.  I  could  not  tell 
how  she  regarded  my  reintrusion.  As  she  continued  to 
talk,  a  feeling  that  was  almost  desperation  grew  upon  me. 
I  had  things  to  say  to  her,  things  that  every  moment  of  this 
sort  of  intercourse  was  making  more  difficult.  And  I  felt, 
if  I  did  not  say  them  now,  that  perhaps  I  never  should: 
that  now  or  never  was  the  appropriate  time,  and  to  delay 
would  be  to  drift  into  an  impossible  situation  wherein  the 
chance  of  an  understanding  would  be  remote. 

There  was  a  pause.  How  little  I  had  anticipated  the 
courage  it  would  take  to  do  this  thing!  My  blood  was 
hammering. 

"Maude,"  I  said  abruptly,  "I  suppose  you're  wondering 
why  I  came  over  here." 

She  sat  gazing  at  me,  very  still,  but  there  came  into  her 
eyes  a  frightened  look  that  almost  unnerved  me.  She 
seemed  to  wish  to  speak,  to  be  unable  to.  Passively,  she 
let  my  hand  rest  on  hers. 

"I've  been  thinking  a  great  deal  during  the  last  few 
months,"  I  went  on  unsteadily.  "And  I've  changed  a  good 
many  of  my  ideas  —  that  is,  I've  got  new  ones,  about  things 
I  never  thought  of  before.  I  want  to  say,  first,  that  I  do 
not  put  forth  any  claim  to  come  back  into  your  life.  I  know 
I  have  forfeited  any  claim.  I've  neglected  you,  and  I've 


A   FAR  COUNTRY  505 

neglected  the  children.  Our  marriage  has  been  on  a  false 
basis  from  the  start,  and  I've  been  to  blame  for  it.  There 
is  more  to  be  said  about  the  chances  for  a  successful  marriage 
in  these  days,  but  I'm  not  going  to  dwell  on  that  now,  or 
attempt  to  shoulder  off  my  shortcomings  on  my  bringing 
up,  on  the  civilization  in  which  we  have  lived.  You've  tried 
to  do  your  share,  and  the  failure  hasn't  been  your  fault. 
I  want  to  tell  you  first  of  all  that  I  recognize  your  right  to 
live  your  life  from  now  on,  independently  of  me,  if  you  so 
desire.  You  ought  to  have  the  children  — "I  hesitated  a 
moment.  It  was  the  hardest  thing  I  had  to  say.  "I've 
never  troubled  myself  about  them,  I've  never  taken  on 
any  responsibility  in  regard  to  their  bringing  up." 

"Hugh!"  she  cried. 

"Wait  —  I've  got  more  to  tell  you,  that  you  ought  to 
know.  I  shouldn't  be  here  to-day  if  Nancy  Durrett  had 
consented  to  —  to  get  a  divorce  and  marry  me.  We  had 
agreed  to  that  when  this  accident  happened  to  Ham,  and 
she  went  back  to  him.  I  have  to  tell  you  that  I  still  love 
her  —  I  can't  say  how  much,  or  define  my  feelings  toward 
her  now.  I've  given  up  all  idea  of  her.  I  don't  think  I'd 
marry  her  now,  even  if  I  had  the  chance,  and  you  should 
decide  to  live  away  from  me.  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  so 
sure  of  myself  as  I  once  was.  The  fact  is,  Maude,  circum 
stances  have  been  too  much  for  me.  I've  been  beaten.  And 
I'm  not  at  all  certain  that  it  wasn't  a  cowardly  thing  for 
me  to  come  back  to  you  at  all." 

I  felt  her  hand  trembling  under  mine,  but  I  had  not  the 
!  courage  to  look  at  her.  I  heard  her  call  my  name  again  — 
a  little  cry,  the  very  poignancy  of  pity  and  distress.  It 
almost  unnerved  me. 

"I  knew  that  you  loved  her,  Hugh,"  she  said.  "It  was 
only  —  only  a  little  while  after  you  married  me  that  I 
found  it  out.  I  guessed  it  —  women  do  guess  such  things 
—  long  before  you  realized  it  yourself.  You  ought  to  have 
married  her  instead  of  me.  You  would  have  been  happier 
with  her." 


506  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

I  did  not  answer. 

"I,  too,  have  thought  a  great  deal,"  she  went  on,  after  a 
moment.  "I  began  earlier  than  you,  I  had  to."  I  looked 
up  suddenly  and  saw  her  smiling  at  me,  faintly,  through 
her  tears.  "But  I've  been  thinking  more,  and  learning 
more  since  I've  been  over  here.  I've  come  to  see  that  — 
that  our  failure  hasn't  been  as  much  your  fault  as  I  once 
thought,  as  much  as  you  yourself  declare.  You  have  done 
me  a  wrong,  and  you've  done  the  children  a  wrong.  Oh, 
it  is  frightful  to  think  how  little  I  knew  when  I  married 
you,  but  even  then  I  felt  instinctively  that  you  didn't  love 
me  as  I  deserved  to  be  loved.  And  when  we  came  back 
from  Europe  I  knew  that  I  couldn't  satisfy  you,  I  couldn't 
look  upon  life  as  you  saw  it,  no  matter  how  hard  I  tried. 
I  did  try,  but  it  wasn't  any  use.  You'll  never  know  how 
much  I've  suffered  all  these  years. 

"I  have  been  happier  here,  away  from  you,  with  the 
children ;  I've  had  a  chance  to  be  myself.  It  isn't  that  I'm 
—  much.  It  isn't  that  I  don't  need  guidance  and  counsel 
and  —  sympathy.  I've  missed  those,  but  you've  never 
given  them  to  me,  and  I've  been  learning  more  and  more 
to  do  without  them.  I  don't  know  why  marriage  should 
suddenly  have  become  such  a  mockery  and  failure  in  our 
time,  but  I  know  that  it  is,  that  ours  hasn't  been  such  an 
exception  as  I  once  thought.  I've  come  to  believe  that 
divorce  is  often  justified." 

"It  is  justified  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  Maude,"  I 
replied.  "It  is  not  justified  for  me.  I  have  forfeited,  as  I 
say,  any  rights  over  you.  I  have  been  the  aggressor  and 
transgressor  from  the  start.  You  have  been  a  good  wife 
and  a  good  mother,  you  have  been  faithful,  I  have  had 
absolutely  nothing  to  complain  of." 

"Sometimes  I  think  I  might  have  tried  harder,"  she  said. 
"At  least  I  might  have  understood  better.  I  was  stupid. 
But  everything  went  wrong.  And  I  saw  you  growing  away 
from  me  all  the  time,  Hugh,  growing  away  from  the  friends 
who  were  fond  of  you,  as  though  you  were  fading  in  the 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  507 

distance.  It  wasn't  wholly  because  —  because  of  Nancy 
that  I  left  you.  That  gave  me  an  excuse  —  an  excuse  for 
myself.  Long  before  that  I  realized  my  helplessness,  I 
knew  that  whatever  I  might  have  done  was  past  doing." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  I  assented. 

We  sat  in  silence  for  a  while.  The  train  was  skirting  an 
ancient  town  set  on  a  hill,  crowned  with  a  castle  and  a  Gothic 
church  whose  windows  were  afire  in  the  setting  sun. 

"Maude,"  I  said,  "I  have  not  come  to  plead,  to  appeal 
to  your  pity  as  against  your  judgment  and  reason.  I  can 
say  this  much,  that  if  I  do  not  love  you,  as  the  word  is 
generally  understood,  I  have  a  new  respect  for  you,  and  a 
new  affection,  and  I  think  that  these  will  grow.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  there  are  some  fortunate  people  who  achieve 
the  kind  of  mutual  love  for  which  it  is  human  to  yearn, 
whose  passion  is  naturally  transmuted  into  a  feeling  that 
may  be  even  finer,  but  I  am  inclined  to  think,  even  in  such 
a  case,  that  some  effort  and  unselfishness  are  necessary. 
At  any  rate,  that  has  been  denied  to  us,  and  we  can  never 
know  it  from  our  own  experience.  We  can  only  hope  that 
there  is  such  a  thing,  —  yes,  and  believe  in  it  and  work  for  it." 

"Work  for  it,  Hugh?"  she  repeated. 

"For  others  —  for  our  children.  I  have  been  thinking 
about  the  children  a  great  deal  in  the  last  few  months  — 
especially  about  Matthew." 

"You  always  loved  him  best,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  I  admitted.  "I  don't  know  why  it  should  be  so. 
And  in  spite  of  it,  I  have  neglected  him,  neglected  them, 
failed  to  appreciate  them  all.  I  did  not  deserve  them.  I 
have  reproached  myself,  I  have  suffered  for  it,  not  as  much  as 
I  deserved.  I  came  to  realize  that  the  children  were  a  bond 
between  us,  that  their  existence  meant  something  greater 
than  either  of  us.  But  at  the  same  time  I  recognized  that 
I  had  lost  my  right  over  them,  that  it  was  you  who  had  proved 
yourself  worthy.  ...  It  was  through  the  children  that  I 
came  to  think  differently,  to  feel  differently  toward  you.  I 
have  come  to  you  to  ask  your  forgiveness." 


508  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

"Oh,  Hugh!  "she  cried. 

"Wait,"  I  said.  .  .  .  "  I  have  come  to  you,  through  them. 
I  want  to  say  again  that  I  should  not  be  here  if  I  had  obtained 
my  desires.  Yet  there  is  more  to  it  than  that.  I  think  I 
have  reached  a  stage  where  I  am  able  to  say  that  I  am  glad 
I  didn't  obtain  them.  I  see  now  that  this  coming  to  you  was 
something  I  have  wanted  to  do  all  along,  but  it  was  the  cow 
ardly  thing  to  do,  after  I  had  failed,  for  it  was  not  as  though  I 
had  conquered  the  desires,  the  desires  conquered  me.  At  any 
rate,  I  couldn't  come  to  you  to  encumber  you,  to  be  a  drag 
upon  you.  I  felt  that  I  must  have  something  to  offer  you. 
I've  got  a  plan,  Maude,  for  my  Me,  for  our  lives.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  can  make  a  success  of  it,  and  you  are  entitled 
to  decline  to  take  the  risk.  I  don't  fool  myself  that  it  will 
be  all  plain  sailing,  that  there  won't  be  difficulties  and  dis 
couragements.  But  I'll  promise  to  try." 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  —  I  think  I 
know." 

"Perhaps  you  have  guessed  it.  I  am  willing  to  try  to 
devote  what  is  left  of  my  life  to  you  and  to  them.  And  I 
need  your  help.  I  acknowledge  it.  Let  us  try  to  make  more 
possible  for  them  the  life  we  have  missed." 

"The  life  we  have  missed !"  she  said. 

"Yes.  My  mistakes,  my  failures,  have  brought  us  to  the 
edge  of  a  precipice.  We  must  prevent,  if  we  can,  those  mis 
takes  and  failures  for  them.  The  remedy  for  unhappy  mar 
riages,  for  all  mistaken,  selfish  and  artificial  relationships  in 
life  is  a  preventive  one.  My  plan  is  that  we  try  to  educate 
ourselves  together,  take  advantage  of  the  accruing  knowledge 
that  is  helping  men  and  women  to  cope  with  the  problems, 
to  think  straight.  We  can  then  teach  our  children  to  think 
straight,  to  avoid  the  pitfalls  into  which  we  have  fallen." 

I  paused.  Maude  did  not  reply.  Her  face  was  turned 
away  from  me,  towards  the  red  glow  of  the  setting  sun  above 
the  hills. 

"You  have  been  doing  this  all  along,  you  have  had  the 
vision,  the  true  vision,  while  I  lacked  it,  Maude.  I  offer  to. 


A  FAR  COUNTRY  509 

help  you.  But  if  you  think  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  live 
together,  if  you  believe  my  feeling  toward  you  is  not  enough, 
if  you  don't  think  I  can  do  what  I  propose,  or  if  you  have 
ceased  to  care  for  me  — " 

She  turned  to  me  with  a  swift  movement,  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"Oh,  Hugh,  don't  say  any  more.  I  can't  stand  it.  How 
little  you  know,  for  all  your  thinking.  I  love  you,  I  always 
have  loved  you.  I  grew  to  be  ashamed  of  it,  —  but  I'm 
not  any  longer.  I  haven't  any  pride  any  more,  and  I  never 
want  to  have  it  again.'* 

"You're  willing  to  take  me  as  I  am,  —  to  try?"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I'm  willing  to  try."  She  smiled 
at  me.  "And  I  have  more  faith  than  you,  Hugh.  I  think 
we'll  succeed."  .  .  . 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night,  when  we  came  out  through  the 
gates  of  the  big,  noisy  station,  the  children  were  awaiting  us. 
They  had  changed,  they  had  grown.  Biddy  kissed  me 
shyly,  and  stood  staring  up  at  me. 

"  We'll  take  you  out  to-morrow  and  show  you  how  we  can 
ride,"  said  Moreton. 

Matthew  smiled.  He  stood  very  close  to  me,  with  his 
hand  through  my  arm. 

"You're  going  to  stay,  father?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  stay,  Matthew,"  I  answered,  "until  we  all 
go  back  to  America."  .  .  . 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

WINSTON  CHURCHILL 

THE  INSIDE  OF  THE  CUP.    Illustrated  by  Howard  Giles. 

The  Reverend  John  Hodder  is  called  to  a  fashionable  church  in 
a  middle- western  city.  He  knows  little  of  modern  problems  and  in 
his  theology  is  as  orthodox  as  the  rich  men  who  control  his  church 
could  desire.  But  the  facts  of  modern  life  are  thrust  upon  him;  an 
awakening  follows  and  in  the  end  he  works  out  a  solution. 
A  FAR  COUNTRY.  Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  novel  is  concerned  with  big  problems  of  the  day.    As  The 
Inside  of  the  Cup  gets  down  to  the  essentials  in  its  discussion  of  re 
ligion,  so  A  Far  Country  deals  in  a  story  that  is  intense  and  dra 
matic,  with  other  vital  issues  confronting  the  twentieth  century. 
A  MODERN  CHRONICLE.    Illustrated  by  J.  H.  Gardner  Soper. 

This,  Mr.   Churchill's  first  great  presentation  of  the  Eternal 
Feminine,  is  throughout  a  profound  study  of  a  fascinating  young 
American  woman.    It  is  frankly  a  modern  love  story. 
MR.  CREWE'S  CAREER.     Illus.  by  A.  I.  Keller  and  Kinneys. 

A  new  England  state  is  under  the  political  domination  of  a  rail 
way  and  Mr.  Crewe,  a  millionaire,  seizes  a  moment  when  the  cause 
of  the  people  is  being  espoused  by  an  ardent  young  attorney,  to  fur- 
ther  his  own  interest  in  a  political  way.  The  daughter  of  the  rail- 
way  president  plays  no  small  part  in  the  situation. 
THE  CROSSING.  Illustrated  by  S.  Adamson  and  L.  Baylis. 

Describing  the  battle  of  Fort  Moultrie,  the  blazing  of  the  Ken- 
tucky  wilderness,  the  expedition  of  Clark  and  his  handful  of  follow 
ers  in   Illinois,  the  beginning  of   civilization  along  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi,  and  the  treasonable  schemes  against  Washington. 
CONISTON.    Illustrated  by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn. 

A  deft  blending  of  love  and  politics.    A  New  Englander  is  the 
hero,  a  crude  man  who  rose  to  political  prominence  by  his  own  pow. 
ers,  and  then  surrendered  all  for  the  love  of  a  woman. 
THE  CELEBRITY.    An  episode. 

An  inimitable  bit  of  comedy  describing  an  interchange  of  per 
sonalities  between  a  celebrated  author  and  a  bicycle  salesman.  It 
is  the  purest,  keenest  fun — and  is  American  to  the  core. 

THE  CRISIS.    Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  Photo-Play. 

A  book  that  presents  the  great  crisis  in  our  national  life  with 
splendid  power  and  with  a  sympathy,  a  sincerity,  and  a  patriotism 
that  are  inspiring. 

RICHARD  CARVEL.    Illustrated  by  Malcolm  Frazer. 

An  historical  novel  which  gives  a  real  and  vivid  picture  of  Co 
lonial  times,  and  is  good,  clean,  spirited  reading  in  all  its  phases  and 
interesting  throughout. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,      PUBLISHERS,     NEW  YORK 


JACK    LONDON'S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

JOHN  BARLEYCORN.    Illustrated  by  H.  T.  Dunn. 

This  remarkable  book  is  a  record  of  the  author's  own  amazing 
experiences.  This  big,  brawny  world  rover,  who  has  been  ac 
quainted  with  alcohol  from  boyhood,  comes  out  boldly  against  John 
Barleycorn.  It  is  a  string  of  exciting  adventures,  yet  it  forcefully 
conveys  an  unforgetable  idea  and  makes  a  typical  Jack  London  book. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON.    Frontispiece  by  George  Harper. 

The  story  opens  in  the  city  slums  where  Billy  Roberts,  teamster 
and  ex-prize  fighter,  and  Saxon  Brown,  laundry  worker,  meet  and 
love  and  marry.  They  tramp  from  one  end  of  California  to  the 
other,  and  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon  find  the  farm  paradise  that  is 
to  be  their  salvation. 

BURNING  DAYLIGHT.    Four  illustrations. 

The  story  ot  an  adventurer  who  went  to  Alaska  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  his  fortune  before  the  gold  hunters  arrived.  Bringing 
his  fortunes  to  the  States  he  is  cheated  out  of  it  by  a  crowd  of  money 
kings,  and  recovers  it  only  at  the  muzzle  of  his  gun.  He  then  starts 
out  as  a  merciless  exploiter  on  his  own  account.  Finally  he  takes  to 
drinking  and  becomes  a  picture  of  degeneration.  About  this  time 
he  falls  in  love  with  his  stenographer  and  wins  her  heart  but  not 
her  hand  and  then — but  read  the  story! 

A  SON  OF  THE  SUN.  Illustrated  by  A.  O.Fischer  and  C.W.  Ashley. 

David  Grief  was  once  a  light-haired,  blue-eyed  youth  who  came 
from  England  to  the  South  Seas  in  search  of  adventure.  Tanned 
like  a  native  and  as  lithe  as  a  tiger,  he  became  a  real  son  of  the  sun. 
The  life  appealed  to  him  and  he  remained  and  became  very  wealthy. 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin  and 
Charles  Livingston  Bull.    Decorations  by  Charles  E.  Hooper. 
A  book  ot  dog  adventures  as   exciting  as  any  man's  exploits 
could  be.    Here  is  excitement  to  stir  the  blood  and  here  is  pictur 
esque  color  to  transport  the  reader  to  primitive  scenes. 

THE  SEA  WOLF.    Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward. 

Told  by  a  man  whom  Fate  suddenly  swings  from  his  fastidious 
life  into  the  power  of  the  brutal  captain  of  a  sealing  schooner.  A 
novel  of  adventure  warmed  by  a  beautiful  love  episode  that  every 
reader  will  hail  with  delight. 

WHITE  FANG.    Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

"White  Fang"  is  part  dog,  part  wolf  and  all  brute,  living  in  the 
frozen  north ;  he  gradually  comes  under  the  spell  of  man's  com 
panionship,  and  surrenders  all  at  the  last  in  a  fight  with  a  bull  dog. 
Thereafter  he  is  man's  loving  slave. 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS',    NEW   YORK. 


NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE  BY 

WILLIAM  MacLEOD    RAINE 

HANDSOMELY  BOUND  IN  CLOTH.     ILLUSTRATED. 
May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Grosset  and  Dunlap's  list 

MAVERICKS. 

A  tale  of  the  western  frontier,  where  the  "rustler,"  whose  dep 
redations  are  so  keenly  resented  by  the  early  settlers  of  the  range, 
abounds.  One  of  the  sweetest  love  stories  ever  told./ 

A  TEXAS  RANGER. 

How  a  member  of  the  most  dauntless  border  police  force  carried 
law  into  the  mesquit,  saved  the  life  of  an  innocent  man  after  a  series 
of  thrilling  adventures,  followed  a  fugitive  to  Wyoming,  and  then 
passed  through  deadly  peril  to  ultimate  happiness. 

WYOMING. 

In  this  vivid  story  of  the  outdoor  West  the  author  has  captured 
the  breezy  charm  of  "cattleland,"  and  brings  out  the  turbid  life  of 
the  frontier  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor. 

RIDGWAY  OF  MONTANA. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  mining  centers  of  Montana,  where  poli 
tics  and  mining  industries  are  the  religion  of  the  country.  The 
political  contest,  the  love  scene,  and  the  fine  character  drawing  give 
this  story  great  strength  and  charm.  ; 

BUCKY  O'CONNOR. 

Every  chapter  teems  with  "wholesome,  stirring  adventures,  re 
plete  with  the  dashing  spirit  of  the  border,  told  with  dramatic  dash 
and  absorbing  fascination  of  style  and  plot. 

CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT. 

A  story  of  Arizona;  of  swift-riding  men  and  daring  outlaws;  of 
a  bitter  feud  between  cattle-men  and  sheep-herders.  The  heroine 
s  a  most  unusual  woman  and  her  love  story  reaches  a  culmination 
that  is  fittingly  characteristic  of  the  great  free  West. 

BRAND  BLOTTERS. 

A  r.tory  of  the  Cattle  Range.  This  story  brings  out  the  turbid 
life  of  the  frontier,  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor,  with  a  charm 
ing  love  interest  running  through  its  320  pages. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,      PUBLISHERS,      NEW  YORK 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 
Colored  frontispiece  by  W.  Herbert  Dunton. 

Most  of  the  action  of  this  story  takes  place  near  the  turbulent 
Mexican  border  of  the  present  day.  A  New  York  society  girl  buys 
a  ranch  which  becomes  the  center  of  frontier  warfare.  Her  loyal 
cowboys  defend  her  property  from  bandits,  and  her  superintendent 
rescues  her  when  she  is  captured  by  them.  A  surprising  climax 
brings  the  story  to  a  delightful  close. 

DESERT  GOLD 

Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

Another  fascinating  story  of  the  Mexican  border.  Two  men, 
lost  in  the  desert,  discover  gold  when,  overcome  by  weakness,  they 
can  go  no  farther.  The  rest  of  the  story  describes  the  recent  uprising 
along  the  border,  and  ends  with  the  finding  of  the  gold  which  the 
two  prospectors  had  willed  to  the  girl  who  is  the  story's  heroine. 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

A  picturesq ue  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  j'ears  ago  when 
Mormon  authority  ruled.  In  the  persecution  of  Jane  Withersteen,  a 
rich  ranch  owner,  we  are  permitted  to  see  the  methods  employed  by 
the  invisible  hand  of  the  Mormon  Church  to  break  her  will. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

Illustrated  with  photograph  reproductions. 

This  is  the  record  of  a  trip  which  the  author  took  with  Buffalo 
Jones,  known  as  the  preserver  of  the  American  bison,  across  the 
Arizona  desert  and  of  a  hunt  in  "that  wonderful  country  of  yellow 
crags,  deep  canons  and  giant  pines."  It  is  a  fascinating  story. 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 
Jacket  in  color.     Frontispiece. 

This  big  human  drama  is  played  in  the  Painted  Desert.    A 
lovely  girl,  who  has  been  reared  among  Mormons,  learns  to  love  a 
young  New  Englander.    The  Mormon  religion,  however,  demands 
that  the  girl  shall  become  the  second  wife  of  one  of  the  Mormons- 
Well,  that's  the  problem  of  this  sensational,  big  selling  story.  / 

BETTY  ZANE 

Illustrated  by  Louis  F.  Grant. 

This  story  tells  of  the  bravery  and  heroism  of  Betty,  the  beauti 
ful  young  sister  of  old  Colonel  Zane,  one  of  the  bravest  pioneers. 
Life  along  the  frontier,  attacks  by  Indians,  Betty's  heroic  defense 
of  the  beleaguered  garrison  at  Wheeling,  the  burning  of  the  Fort, 
and  Betty's  final  race  for  life,  make  up  this  never-to-be-forgotten  story. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

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